


Icarus Reclaimed

by mckinlily



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Foster Care, Friendsheith, Galaxy Garrison, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Imperfect people trying really hard, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Poor decisions with respect to hovers, Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14029149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mckinlily/pseuds/mckinlily
Summary: —“Keith?! Where are you?”—“Um… The desert?”When Shiro gave his number to the scrawny preteen hanging around the hover tracks, he hadn’t expected this. But now Keith is lost in the desert, and it’s on Shiro to find him.Featuring Keith’s terrible decision making process, Shiro’s decision making process which honestly isn’t much better, and a bunch of adults who are just trying to make sure these stubborn, loyal boys are okay.





	1. Chapter 1

Apparently Shiro can answer the phone in his sleep. He discovers this lying on his stomach with his phone to his ear, blinking blearily as he tries to figure out what could possibly be going on.

“ _Shiro?_ ”

“Yeah?” says Shiro. His brain is slugging along about three seconds behind his mouth. “Sorry. I…” Blue digital numbers read 1:12. As Shiro keeps blinking, he realizes he is in his bed. “I was… Asleep.”

Oh yeah. Sleep. That would make sense.

“ _Oh. Sorry. I’ll just—_ ”

“No, wait.” Shiro shoves himself upright. He can make out the shadows of his Garrison dormroom now and is slowly processing his situation. “Sorry. I’m—” Shiro shakes his head to clear it. “What were you saying?”

“ _Um._ ” The voice on the other end sounds uncertain, and Shiro realizes there is another vital piece of information he’s missing.

“Who is this?”

“ _Oh. Um, it’s Keith._ ”

Keith. Keith? Shiro racks his brain. Does he know any Keith’s? Not in his classes, or—

The image of bruised-purple eyes and unkempt black hair comes to mind, and suddenly Shiro is a lot more awake.

“Keith! Are you all right?”

“ _Um_ ,” says the voice on the other end again.

Images of too thin ribs and old bruises that are never quite explained come to mind. Shiro throws his feet out of bed, ready to run though he has no idea where, his hands clenched around his phone. He wants to yell, but the Garrison is trying to train their pilots how to react in emergency situations.

He forces his voice toward calm. “What happened?”

Again, hesitance from the other end. “ _Uh…_ ”

“Keith.” Shiro uses the measured, calm tone he’s been privately practicing for pilot-in-command. “I want to help you. But I need to know what happened.”

“ _I’m kind of…stuck?_ ”

Keith isn’t very talkative normally, but right now his reticent tendency is driving Shiro insane. He breathes out his nose. _Patience yields focus._ That’s what Major Fuller is always telling him. _Slow down, Shirogane. Patience._

“Stuck how?”

“ _Um. I guess I need a ride?”_

“Okay.” That’s doable. That’s…well, it’s one in the morning. No twelve-year-old should be out and about at this time, but that’s not the _worst_ thing Keith could be into. Shiro’s worried about far worse. “Where are you?”

Silence for a moment. Then, “ _I don’t know._ ”

Shiro groans, almost losing all his patience at once. But, no. He wants to be a deep-space pilot. He can handle more than this. He re-centers himself. “Okay then. Can you look around for me? Streets signs? Or building names?”

“ _Um._ ” And in the pause, Shiro just _knows_ he’s not going to like the answer. “ _I’m in the desert?_ ”

“Keith!” shouts Shiro. They’re in Arizona. The entire _state_ is desert! And— “It’s October! You could freeze!”

“ _Yeah,_ ” says Keith. Then, like it’s an offhand comment: “ _It’s raining._ ”

Shiro almost lunges for his phone to check the weather before remembering he’s holding it to his ear. Instead, he has to settle for jittering his knee up and down. “Keith, this is serious. Why are you out in the desert in the middle of the night?”

Silence on the other end of the phone.

Shiro bites back a groan and digs his free hand into his hair. He doesn’t know a lot about Keith. Just that the kid can _fly_ , seems to _need_ to fly just as much as Shiro does, and that any prodding into his home life or even just life outside of the love of desert hovers they both share will cause Keith to clam up tight.

But— _damnit._ There’s a twelve-year-old. In the desert. At night. In the _rain_.

Shiro punches his thigh. He knows if he lets his frustration or fear show, Keith will be gone like a started rabbit. He can’t let that happen.

“Keith? You still with me?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” says Keith quietly on the other end.

Shiro bites back any questions like _what the hell are you doing in the desert?_ and instead focuses on the situation on hand. “I’m going to help you. But I need more to go on. Do you have any idea where you are? Any at all? What’s your situation like?”

“ _Um. I think by the racing tracks._ ”

“Near by?”

“ _Sort of. Maybe like an hour away? I don’t know._ ” Keith’s voice starts shaking, and Shiro realizes he’s terrified but trying not to let it show. “ _I got lost._ ”

Shiro’s heart is like a jackhammer in his chest. “An hour away? How’d you get there? Are there any landmarks?”

“ _I had a hover,_ ” says Keith. “ _But it broke._ _I don’t know. I don’t really know where I am. There’s cliffs? I don’t know._ _It’s not the needles side. I was going north, but it doesn’t look right—”_

“Breathe, Keith,” instructs Shiro. “It’s going to be okay. Okay, Keith? It’s going to be okay.” He says this while he internally panics. A hover can cover much more distance than a kid on foot. What was Keith _doing_? “Do you have any supplies? Flares? Anything reflective?”

“ _N-no_ ,” says Keith, and Shiro can’t tell he’s freaking out and shutting down.

Shiro is frantically moving around his tiny bedroom, shoving his feet into boots without socks. How is he going to find Keith? “What about your hover? Does it have headlights?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Can you turn those on? Turn them toward the sky if you can.”

“ _I-I don’t know…_ ”

“Just try, okay? Turn any lights on that you can. What are you calling me from? Does it have a GPS connection? …Keith? Keith, are you still there?”

There other end is garbled static.

“Keith! Are you there? KEITH!”

Static. And then the line goes dead.

“ _Damnit!_ ”

Shiro yanks his phone from his ear and tries redialing, but it goes straight to voicemail. Shiro’s mind is pretty much just a massive conglomerate of swearwords. He grabs his jacket, his key card for the Garrison vehicles, wonders if he has time to collect more supplies and decides he doesn’t. He’ll just have to make it work.

Right now, he has to find Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is entirely written out. I'll be updating once a day ish. I hope you enjoy! As always, kudos and comments make my day! <3


	2. Chapter 2

_Shiro isn’t coming_. The words repeat in Keith’s head like some sort of demented prayer. Over and over. _Shiro isn’t coming. You shouldn’t have called him._ He rocks back and forth, knees pulled up to his chest. _He’s not coming._

Keith doesn’t know why he called Shiro, the grinning hotshot pilot who has been teaching Keith tricks on a hover for the last month. He has no idea why he thought to believe Shiro when he said Keith could come to him for help when no one else has ever come through for Keith before.

It doesn’t matter. He isn’t coming.

(Keith wishes he hadn’t called. Shiro likes him. Shiro thinks Keith can do something _right_. And Keith hates, he _hates,_ that the last thing Shiro is going to think of him is an inconvenience.)

A violent shudder runs through him. It’s an attempt to shiver, but his body’s too tired to keep it up. He’s hiding under the body of a ‘borrowed’ hover, drenched to the skin from the desert’s icy rain. Keith has only a long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of worn out jeans. His jacket was ‘lost’ at school yesterday. Hooked onto the hover is a backpack with two filled water bottles, a handful of granola bars, and another set of clothes. But they aren’t any warmer than what he has on and probably just as wet by now. Keith has hunched over, trying to keep as little of his body in contact with the cold sandstone as possible, but the bones of his bottom hurt and cold seeps up through the thin soles of his boots.

Keith rocks in place, cognizant of the fact he’s on the verge of a breakdown and he can’t do that. Temper-tantrums are for children, and Keith isn’t one. Keith rocks faster. He can’t break down. That’s part of what makes Keith weird and wrong, but there’s no one around and—

He’s not _scared_ , okay? He’s not scared of a stupid thunderstorm. It’s just that he’s cold and the hovercraft is broken and it’s raining and every time the lightning strikes it seems closer and the thunder hits him so loudly he can’t hear his own thoughts—but he’s not _scared_.

The headlights are on. They’re pointed as far up as Keith could manage with the broken hover. The dead satellite phone lays on the ground beside Keith, mocking him, like it had when Keith found it in the seat compartment. Tantalizing him into calling for help. When Keith knows no one will come for him.

Mostly, what Keith feels is shame. He can take care of himself. He’s been doing it for years, all his life really. He knows what to do to keep going, to stay safe. And yet he ended up here, stuck, because he messed up. Because he failed. Because the one thing he’s supposed to be able to do—

He should never have called.

He’s so _cold_. He can’t tell if his toes are numb or burning. His fingers are too stiff to close. Those are _definitely_ burning. Icy water drips from his hair down his back, and his shoulders ache from shivering. His nose is cold. His ears are cold. Pain seems to splinter off of his spine. Keith curls closer around his knees, but he’s not sure it helps. He’s supposed to know how to fix this or avoid this or _something_. He had planned this out. He did everything he could think of. Why didn’t it work?

He can’t stop the rocking now, just as he can’t stop the shivers. He rubs his thumbs up and down the meat of his arms and tries to become absorbed in the feeling. He can feel threads of his t-shirt, the way water causes the fabric to slip and bunch on his skin. Thunder roars and builds in the distance, slamming against his ears.

Except…

The thunder keeps building, and then it’s less of a rumble now and more of a very loud hum. Red glows behind his eyelids, and Keith opens his eyes to blindingly bright light. It cuts through the desert night, casting everything in sharp contrast with long, deep shadows. Behind the light, something is moving, and Keith hears the _smack-splash_ of boots on wet sandstone.

“Keith? KEITH!”

The footsteps become loud and rapid. Keith moves out from under the hover enough to make out the tall silhouette frantically looking around the downed machine.

“KEITH!”

Keith can barely find the breath to whisper. “Shiro?”

The figure whips around. And then—Keith’s not entirely sure what happens, but he’s smashed up against something wet and solid with zippers that dig into his cheek and there are arms around his back so tight he can hardly breathe. Not that he was too great a job at that anyway.

“Keith. _Keith_.” A hand is on his head, the thumb stoking his hair. His forehead touches skin, and it’s so warm it burns. Keith wants to move, but he can’t. He’s frozen. People don’t touch Keith. He doesn’t _want_ them to touch him. But this is different.

Before Keith can begin to process what is happening, Shiro pulls away, and his hands drop to Keith’s shoulders. Shiro is like some kind of action hero with the bright backlight and his wet bangs plastered to his forehead.

Shiro is here. The thought seems to take a remarkably long time make it through Keith’s brain cells. He actually _came._

“Keith. What were you doing _?!_ ”

Keith flinches. Shiro’s hands don’t let him pull away, though.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says, and Keith dares to look up again. “It’s okay,” repeats Shiro.

While Keith is frozen, Shiro takes off his jacket and drops it around Keith’s shoulders. It’s heavy, thick, still warm from Shiro’s body. It feels _good._ Keith’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve that, but he’s cold and weak and wet and Shiro is _here._ He looks up into Shiro’s eyes.

“Can you fix it?” he begs. He doesn’t know if he’s talking about the hover or the situation or just asking if Shiro can fix _him._

Shiro doesn’t look too worried though. He’s like a legend stepped out of a movie screen except better and _real_. He clasps a hand on Keith’s back.

“Let’s find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by spending the winter in frozen Michigan combined with my family's tendency to vacation in Moab in mid-November. What can I say. I was cold.


	3. Chapter 3

_Past_

From the ages six to nine, Shiro didn’t speak.

Shiro doesn’t really remember this. He’s a bit confused about it actually because it was during that time that he started going by ‘Shiro.’ He didn’t want those strangers and families that weren’t his using Takashi, and he was tired of people mispronouncing his name—his _father’s_ name. And everyone always referred to him as Shiro, so he must have communicated that somehow, right? He must have spoken sometime. But that’s not what anyone else said and it’s not like Shiro can check back anymore, so it will remain one of those things about his childhood that just doesn’t quite make sense.

What Shiro _does_ remember is an intense feeling of pressure. He didn’t really understand what was going on. Just an explanation from a man he remembers being about eighty feet tall with lots of beard on the underside of his chin: _“Your mother isn’t able to take care of you right now”_ And little Shiro worked so _hard_ to prove he wouldn’t be too much to take care of. Trying to follow all the rules of his new families, even though every one was different, struggling to be perfect in school, meticulously practicing his English (yet another reason he isn’t sure why everyone was so convinced he was silent: he remembers that so vividly). Little Shiro was convinced that if he could just work hard enough, take care of all his stuff and learn to eat the right things, behave right, talk right so that the teachers would praise him instead of speaking slowly and shaking their heads—if he could just do things _right_ then maybe the tired man with yellow hair would stop thinking Shiro was such a bad, terrible burden and let him go back to his mom.

In the end, his mother found him again before Shiro managed any of that. And truth is, he still hasn’t, even ten years later.

 

_Present_

Shiro might be panicking. Maybe. A little.

Oh, who is he kidding. Shiro is totally freaking out.

On the other hand, Shiro has a lost twelve-year-old in serious danger of hypothermia on the back of his hover in the middle of the desert and is only now realizing he might be in over his head—which is just further proof that Shiro is really the last person who should be handling this situation. This is totally grounds for freaking out.

Sheesh, but Shiro is _nineteen._ He has a tendency to forget that—He has ambitions, dreams that he doesn’t want to put off just because he’s _young_ —but for the love of Newton and Tesla, he can’t even cook anything that involves more than precise instructions for a microwave or a rice cooker! Shiro might have the best flight scores the Garrison has ever seen, but that doesn’t mean he knows anything once he steps out of the cockpit.

But just because literally anyone else would be better equipped to handle this doesn’t change the fact that _Shiro_ is the one handling it now. He’d given Keith his number with the promise to help whenever he called (because it was obvious the kid needed _somebody_ , and Shiro wasn’t about to just _ignore_ that). Shiro has no intention of backing down from that promise. So he leans low over the handlebars, ignoring the sting of rain smacking his face, and flies as fast as he dares over the rain-soaked desert.

What are the symptoms of hypothermia? Shiro remembers vaguely of hearing people were in greater danger in temperatures around low fifties rather than below freezing, but he can’t remember why. How much danger was Keith in? He wished he had paid better attention during his classes on field medicine at the Garrison. Right now he can’t remember which treatments go with hypothermia and which with frostbite and which come from various adventure movies he watched as a kid. But he needs to calm down. Stop panicking. Those are the rules, right? Bring your towel and don’t panic.

Wow, he really needs less nerdy friends.

(That’s a lie. Shiro knows exactly why all his friends are nerdy, and it has entirely to do with self-selection.)

Shiro’s back suddenly seems cold (well, colder. The entirety of him is freezing). He realizes that Keith has stopped burying his head into Shiro’s back, and then he’s tugging at Shiro’s shirt.  

“You can drop off here.”

Shiro pulls the flyer down to a slow stutter, looking around in confusion. There’s a very sketchy gas station on one side of the dirt road, and on the other side there’s a run down diner that serves the best pancakes Shiro has ever had but also sent one of the patrons into hysterics when a dust ball the size of a small rodent fell off of the ceiling fan, so Shiro considers the whole experience a toss up.

Which says nothing about how Shiro feels about the situation _now._ That can mostly be described as “entirely out of his depth.”

“Here?” he repeats.

"Yeah,” says Keith. He makes to get off the flyer, but Shiro grabs him awkwardly around the elbow and holds him in place.

“No. Keith, I’m getting you home.”

Immediately, Keith tenses up. Shiro can’t get a good look at him, Keith being behind him, but he twists around enough to be able to see Keith frantically shake his head.

“No! I-I—Shiro, I can’t!”

There’s blatant fear on Keith’s face, and Shiro feels his heart plunge into the muddy ground beneath them. He breathes out heavily through his nose. _Calm_. Because he’s an adult (barely), and he knows how to handle this (definitely not).

“Keith,” says Shiro as calmly as he can manage. “What happened?”

Keith’s jaw locks and refuses to answer. Shiro gets the impression he’d fold his arms, too, if they weren’t still somewhat wrapped around Shiro’s waist.

Shiro decides to try a tactic his mother used on him when he was Keith’s age: the Shirogane Stare Down.

Keith drops eye contact. “I’m not going back. I can’t.”

“Okay,” says Shiro. His voice sounds disturbingly calm compared spiraling content of his thoughts. What’s happened to Keith? What convinced him he had to leave? Shiro’s suddenly realizing that in addition checking him for hypothermia, he should have been checking for bruises, broken ribs, or—or he doesn’t know what! What else has he missed?

Shiro realizes that Keith is making another attempt off the hover. In a flash, he catches him by the bicep and hauls him back onto the seat.

“I’m not going!” shouts Keith. “You can’t make me!”

“I’m not! Keith, calm down. I’m not making you go anywhere.” Shiro’s death grip on his arm sort of belies that statement, but it’s the middle of the night and Shiro is stressed. “I won’t make you go home.” He considers pointing out he doesn’t even know where Keith’s home _is_ and decides against it.

Holding Keith’s arm, Shiro can feel that Keith’s trembling. He can’t tell if it’s due to cold or fear or maybe both. Keith looks small and pathetic, drowned in Shiro’s coat, and what he really needs is to get _somewhere._ Problem is, Shiro doesn’t really know where. Home is obviously out. Shiro’s next thought is the police—they deal with lost children, right?—but, call it a gut feeling, Shiro doesn’t think Keith gets along well with police. There’s the hospital, but they might get the police involved anyway and besides if nothing’s seriously wrong with Keith will they let him stay? Shiro doesn’t really know anyone not connected to the Garrison, and cadets aren’t allowed overnight guests.

And maybe it’s the lighting, but Shiro swears Keith’s lips are blue.

Abruptly, Shiro decides _screw it._ He’s probably going to regret this later, but at the moment he doesn’t see much choice. “All right. You’re coming with me.”       

Keith’s lip juts out mulishly. “Where.”

“My place. We’re going to sneak you into the Garrison.”

Yeah, this is probably going to end badly. Shiro figures they’ll deal with it when it comes.


	4. Chapter 4

_Not so distant past_

Marie Keen is a big woman with brown skin and curly black hair that’s going grey at the roots, has been a social worker for six years and Keith Kogane’s for two. And she wishes—she _wishes_ —that this was the first time she’d had this conversation.

“To confirm: Am I speaking to Keith Kogane’s social worker?”

“This is she.”

“I’m sorry to inform you that Keith has been reported missing.”

Dread settles hard and solid in her stomach. Marie very mechanically replaces the cap of her pink nail polish and places it back on the coffee table.

“Keith Kogane?”

“Yes, Ma’am. That’s what I said.” A pause. And then, “Ma’am, we’re going to need—”

“Oh, I know what you’re going to need,” growls Marie. That’s ruder than she intended. “Sorry. It’s just…” She sighs. “That kid. Well, what happened this time?”

The officer starts the report, and Marie starts the coffee maker.

Fresh cup at 10:23 pm. It’s almost like she’s back in college again.

It’s not that Keith is a bad kid. Marie has very strong opinions about people who label her kids “bad” just because they’re hurting and acting out, but even if she didn’t, she still wouldn’t call Keith bad—the bursting seams of his file notwithstanding. She honestly believes that Keith doesn’t intend to make trouble. Now if someone could just get _through_ to him…

But therein lies the problem. Keith’s been in the system since he was seven, no one’s exactly sure what his situation was like before that, and reaching him sometimes seems about as likely as contacting alien life. Marie’s tried. Families have tried. Guidance counselors, therapists, his last two social workers have all _tried_ , but nothing gets through. Whatever’s raging and screaming inside this kid’s head, they can’t touch it.

Marie’s done everything she can to help. She was the one to get him out of the McClellan’s (and she feels still sick with guilt every time she thinks of that place). Since then, she’s done everything she can, first to get him someplace safe, then out of the group home, and then into the kind of family where he could maybe, _possibly_ begin to heal.

It’s all a long shot. If there’s one flaw in Keith, it’s that if presented with three very bad options and a stressful situation, he will _inevitably_ choose a fourth, even _worse_ option that you had no idea was even a possibility. And for a kid like Keith? His entire life is a tremendously stressful situation.

No, Marie doesn’t blame Keith for making irrational bad decisions, even when—oh good Lord, the low tonight is _thirty-nine_.

Marie sinks against the kitchen counter, momentarily unable to breathe. They have to find him. If they can’t, he could literally freeze to death. That skinny, silent, surly little boy…

They _have_ to find him.

 

_Present_

The rain has stopped by the time Shiro gets back to the Garrison, but the temperature has dropped, too. Shiro has been trying to keep conversation up with Keith just to make sure the kid is still conscious, but Keith has trailed off worryingly over the last ten miles. Shiro ignores all but the most basic precautions sneaking back into the Garrison.

By luck and the incessant restlessness that means Shiro had figured out how sneak in and out of the Garrison within his first month of being there, they get into the hangar unnoticed. Shiro makes a mental note to bribe Ben Stempson in engineering to ignore the dip in the hover’s fuel gage while he pulls Keith off. Keith sways unsteady on his feet and his eyes track the area too slowly.

“Keith? Keith, are you there?”

Keith blinks at him. He looks like a drowned cat with his hair plastered to his face and neck and Shiro’s jacket gaping around his shoulders and—Actually, he just looks sick. Clammy and pale and the faint lights from the exit sights make the dark circles under his eyes look like craters. Shiro is just about to start panicking because if Keith’s isn’t coherent, that’s really, _really_ not good—but then Keith’s eyebrows pop up.

“What’s _that_?” he says in a hushed whisper.

Shiro spins around to spot what Keith’s looking at and grins. “Test craft.” The carbon fiber frame is a sleek glimmer of black in the faint light. “Last test flight it broke the sound barrier just a _hair_ too slowly, so the engineers are taking it apart make it go even faster.”

“Have you flown it?” says Keith with a tone of awed jealousy that Shiro feels only too strongly.

“No. I’m still a cadet. _But—_ ” Shiro can’t help adding, “Over there are pieces of a shuttle being prepped for a mission to the moon.”

“Have you done _that_?” asks Keith.

“Not yet,” admits Shiro. “But next summer—I’m going to get TOMAX-730 clearance, and I’m going to get up there.”

Shiro knows he’s the only one who believes he can land that internship, young as he is, ( _patience, Shirogane,_ they say, _let others have their turn_ ), but that’s not going to stop Shiro. He knows he doesn’t belong here, on the ground. His place is out _there_ , and he’s willing to work his butt off for it.

Keith, for his part, just nods like that’s a forgone conclusion. Or maybe he’s falling asleep standing up. Crap, he looks _really_ pale.

“How are you doing? Do you have any body heat left?” Shiro says it like a joke, but honestly, it’s worrying. He tries feeling Keith’s forehead, but his hands are so cold themselves he can’t really tell how much of the chill is Keith and how much is him. The fact that Keith doesn’t feel _warm_ can’t be a good sign.

“’m cold,” says Keith.

Well, _duh_. That’s what happens when you go out in the rain in the desert without a coat. But Shiro figures he can judge Keith’s life choices later.

“C’mon. Let’s go.” Shiro puts an arm around Keith’s shoulders, takes two steps forward, and realizes Keith is clumsy and fading quickly—and Shiro loses patience _fast._ Propriety can turn up later. For now, Shiro throws Keith over his shoulder in a fireman carry and walks as fast as he can without the wet squeaking of his boots getting loud enough to wake Iverson. Keith mumbles weakly but nothing strong enough to be protest, and Shiro’s _worried_. He picks up the pace, almost running by the time they reach his room.

Once inside, Shiro sets Keith on the ground and almost immediately starts stripping the wet layers off him. Shiro’s jacket comes first, then Keith’s ragged black t-shirt. Keith doesn’t even react until Shiro gets to his pants, and then, he makes an upset noise of protest.

Shiro stops. Keith _cannot_ stay in his wet clothes, but—Shiro has no idea what’s in Keith’s past. He is honestly so out of his depth and doesn’t even have the faintest clue what he’s dealing with. But he understands that this is important. He has to do it right.

“Keith,” he says slowly. He places his hands on Keith’s bony shoulders and bends down until he’s sure Keith has made eye contact. “You are in serious danger of hypothermia. We have to get you out of your wet clothes so you can get warm. I’ll lend you dry clothes, whatever you need, but the wet stuff has to come off. Do you understand?”

For a moment, Keith doesn’t say anything and Shiro is really worried Keith isn’t coherent anymore, but then Keith nods minutely and starts making moves to remove his pants himself. His movements are stiff and clumsy, but Shiro isn’t going to stop him. Instead, he rustles through his things to find a towel that he drops around Keith’s shoulders.

Keith jumps. Then stares at the towel with a something like suspicion. “What’s that for?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “To get dry?”

"Oh,” says Keith.

Oh indeed. To stop himself from outright panicking, Shiro busies himself looking for clothes for Keith. He finds a shirt with “ _got milk?_ ” across the chest (thank you, Matt) and two sizes too small ( _thank_ you, Matt) and a pair of joggers that are going to be at least a foot too long on Keith but at least they have a drawstring. He passes them to Keith, who just takes it with a soft “thanks,” and then turns around to give Keith some privacy and starts pulling of his own soaked clothes.

And it’s like _heaven_. Shiro’s been so focused on Keith’s possible hypothermia, he’s been ignoring how cold he is himself. It’s honestly shocking how much warmer he feels once he’s got his shirt off and has towel-dried his hair. And that’s even before he changes out of his drenched pajama bottoms. He suddenly feels ten degrees warmer and actually a little calmer, too. Maybe it’s the whole physiology affecting your emotions thing. When Shiro isn’t physically quivering with shivers, it’s easier to feel like he can actually think through this mess.

This is in direct contrast to Keith. Because Shiro has just picked up their soaked clothes to spread out to dry when he hears a soft hitch of breath. It’s followed by another, fast and shallow, and Shiro’s been in the cockpit too many times when someone’s simulation has gone sour not to recognize the sound for what it is. Shiro quickly drops the clothes.

“Keith?”

Keith is in Shiro’s clothes—the shirt reaches mid-thigh and Shiro can’t even see the end of the pants. Goosebumps stand out against his skin where he has his arms folded tightly across his chest, and his eyes are so wide Shiro would honestly make a joke about them falling out if they weren’t darting around the room so frantically. His breath is still coming too shallow, too fast.

Shiro fights to keep his heart rate from spiking as well in response. “Keith,” he says, fighting with all he has to keep his voice low and steady. “Keith, buddy. It’s okay. Breathe, buddy. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Keith’s eyes just keep darting around, and his breathing hasn’t steadied at all. His mouth is working like he’s _trying_ to explain, but he keeps swallowing and biting it back again. He’s getting progressively more upset. For a split second, _Shiro_ is young again. Ten, nine, six—small and overwhelmed, drowning in emotions and with no possible way to handle it. Shiro jerks out of it with a sharp shake of his head. _He’s not there anymore._ But the empathy, deep and visceral—that stays.

“Keith,” says Shiro, his heart beating a little too hard. He doesn’t know what else to say, just raises his arms slightly in invitation.

At first, it looks like this is only going to make things worse. Keith rocks back on his heels. Then he launches himself into Shiro’s chest. Shiro hisses when Keith’s icy fingers come in contact with skin—in his vanity, Shiro still hasn’t put on a shirt—and he’s nearly knocked over from the force of it, but he catches them both and curls himself protectively as Keith starts shaking. Honestly, it’s probably the cold. Not that that’s going to stop Shiro. He rubs his hands over Keith’s back in long, soothing motions.

“I-I shouldn’t be here,” chokes Keith. “I was supposed to—I shouldn’t—”

“You’re here now,” says Shiro. “So you’re going to stay.”

“But you—” Keith starts but suddenly gulps and looks away.

“I didn’t give you my number so you wouldn’t use it,” says Shiro. He brushes Keith’s bangs off his forehead and checks his temperature.

“You’re still too cold. Go jump in bed. I’ll take care of our stuff.”

That doesn’t seem to comfort Keith at all. He looks worried. “That’s your bed.”

“Um, yeah?” It’s not like there’s another bed in the room.

“Where will you sleep?”

“I figured we could share.” Then, recollecting that he’s a full-grown male and Keith’s not even a teenager, “Unless you’re not comfortable with that?”

Keith’s eyes dart between the bed and Shiro. “It’s fine. Just. You—”

“Keith, it’s two in the morning,” interrupts Shiro. “I honestly don’t care where I sleep so long as it’s vaguely horizontal. Get in the bed.”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot up, but then he moves towards the bed like a cat pretending he never met to do otherwise. Once there, he curls up into the world’s tiniest ball, watching Shiro over his knees.

Shiro spreads their clothes to dry over whatever surfaces there are with really a lot less care than he should have, and he barely has the energy to plug his phone in and pull on a shirt before he outright collapses into bed. He has this nagging feeling there’s one more thing that—Oh.

"Hey, Keith,” he mumbles, pulling his face out his pillow. “Is there any—I mean, should I let someone know where you are?”

Keith snorts and rolls his eyes. “No one’s going to be looking for me.”

The flat way Keith says it hurts. On the other hand, this is the most like himself Keith has sounded all night. The mixture of emotions that brings up is confusing. Shiro props himself up on one elbow. He keeps his voice gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” says Keith immediately.

Shiro nods. “Okay.”

“Really?” says Keith, watching him suspiciously. “That easy?”

Shiro shrugs. “I get not wanting to talk about something. I won’t make you if you don’t want to.”

“Oh,” says Keith. Finally, _finally_ , he seems to relax a little. He slides away from the wall, closer to the warmth Shiro offers and deeper beneath the covers. “Thanks.”

Shiro wonders what Keith’s life must be like to feel the need to give thanks for basic decency. His thoughts are cut short, though, when Keith’s toes dig into his calves. Shiro nearly yelps at the cold.

"Sorry,” mutters Keith, already rolling away, but before he has a chance to, Shiro grabs him around the waist and pulls him against his chest. Keith is stiff as a board for a second. Then next second, he relaxes burying his cold face against Shiro’s shoulder, his wet hair icy on Shiro’s neck. When Shiro doesn’t stop him there, he tangles their limbs together, digging his toes into Shiro’s calves again, his fingers tangling in Shiro’s shirt and cold leaching through the thin fabric. For someone as standoffish and wary as Keith, he’s remarkably clingy once given a chance.

It’s all terribly uncomfortable for Shiro, but hell if Shiro’s going to do anything to stop it. Keith is small and young and breathtakingly vulnerable as his breaths slow against Shiro’s neck until, pliant and trusting, the kid is out.

Shiro takes longer. Partially because _Keith_ might be happy, but his fingers and toes are _freezing._ But mostly because Shiro is surging with a terrific sense of protectiveness, almost possessiveness. He’s never had a younger sibling, or any siblings at all, but he wonders if this is what it’s like. This fierce, protective feeling that this person is _mine_.

If no one else in this world is going to look after Keith, then Shiro will.

It doesn’t change anything about Shiro—about how he’s young, barely more than a kid himself, that he has no idea what he’s doing or what he’s getting into. But none of that matters. Because Keith is his now, and he’ll do whatever it takes to figure the rest out.

Shiro’s last thoughts before he falls asleep are about his mother and vague questions about custody battles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which real adults are worried about Keith.

The good news is that the Allens are the type to care. They noticed Keith’s absence within hours and contacted the police as soon as their efforts to find him turned up nothing.

That’s the only good news. The rest is predictably empty. No one has seen Keith since he came home from detention after school. They try to contact his friends, teachers, slight acquaintances, but it’s all the same story: Keith doesn’t really connect. No one knows where he goes when he isn’t at home or at school. There’s a few places to check like the library, the community center, a couple of shops, but they all turn up nothing. They’re running blind, scouring the town for a kid too practiced in running away and with the all too unfortunate habit of going unnoticed.

Revathy Allen calls every hour, even as the hours edge into early morning, and all they’re able to tell her is no, they haven’t found Keith yet. They have no new information to share. They’re still looking.

Marie downs another cup of coffee, punching in the numbers of a dwindling list of contacts, while rain keeps pouring and the temperature drops.

_Keith, Keith. Where **are**_ _you?_

As the clock ticks past three, Marie finally gets a call.

“I think we might have a lead.” It’s Officer Romero. He’s a rather short African American man with more pudge around the middle than might be expected for an officer—and perhaps a little less adherence to the rules—but he’s a good man and a good officer. Others might have headed home, but he’s still working, as worried about Keith as Marie is.

“I did some poking after what you got from that Jerome kid. We might have found someone who’s at least seen Keith. But I’m going to need you to talk to them.”

“Why?”

“Well, here’s the thing…”

 

_Illegal hover races, **really**_ **,** thinks Marie. The house they pull up to is in decent enough shape if small and more than a few decades old. There are the contents of about three dissembled hover crafts in the driveway with more parts strewn on the front lawn. Romero knocks on the front door until the door opens a bare crack and they get a glimpse of sleep reddened blue eyes.

“Wha’ cha hammerin’ about? You need a warrant to get in here, so you can just beat it!”

If Marie didn’t spend a good portion of her time dealing with poorly behaved teenagers that might have fazed her. As it is, she just nods to Romero as he leaves and says quite innocently, “What would we need a warrant for?”

The eyes behind the door blink twice. “Erm. Nothing.”

That’s all the opening Marie needs. “I am _so_ sorry to disturb you so late, sir,” she says, practically simpers. She knows how to do her job well. “But a child is missing and we have been looking for him all night. We recognize you have nothing to do with the disappearance, of course, but we’re down to our last straw and if you have any information—any at all—we _beg_ of you—”

“Oh, all right, all right. No need to start sobbing on the porch, lady.”

The door opens to reveal a man on the short side of average. There was nothing particularly interesting about him beyond his patchy day-old stubble. Yawning hugely, he leans against the doorframe and make a little “go on” gesture with his hand.

“Do you know an Annie Ryskamp?”

“That’s me,” says a sleep-caked voice. Moments later, the voice is matched to a woman in matted blonde braids. With several tattoos and pierces, she would appear to be a formidable character expect that her expression says that she is really just wants to go back to sleep.

“Hello, Ms. Ryskamp,” says Marie, thinking quickly about how to frame this. “A boy has gone missing, and we’ve been told he hung out at your hover track. We are hoping you might be able to help us locate him.”

Annie’s eyebrows have climbed very carefully up her forehead. “The tracks aren’t really a place for kids,” she says carefully.

“As we are aware,” says Marie, a touch darkly. “Could you at least identify him?” Marie pulls up a picture on her tablet. She really wishes the most recent photo she had of Keith didn’t feature two black eyes but, well, that’s Keith for you. She shows the picture of Annie. “Have you seen this boy?”

Both Annie and her—husband? boyfriend?—lean over the tablet.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen him before,” says Annie. “He’s quiet. Doesn’t really talk to anyone.”

Which is as expected of Keith, but Marie’s stomach curdles at the thought. “No one?” Desperation colors her voice. “There’s no one he talks to? Or—or just hangs around? Please, if there’s anyone who _might_ know where he is—”

Annie shrugs. “We’re not a babysitting committee. If a kid wants to hang out and doesn’t cause trouble, we won’t stop him. But it’s not our job to keep track of him.”

Marie’s stomach drops. It was a long shot. She knew it was a long shot. But she’s so desperate for _any_ hint of Keith—

“Are you quite sure?”

Annie shrugs again. “Sorry.”

Marie pulls herself back together. “Thank you for your ti—”

“Wait,” says the boyfriend/husband. Both Annie and Marie stare at him. He jabs finger at the picture. “He’s a small kid, right? Fast. Scrawny.”

Marie nods slowly.

“You know, I think there is one person who talks to him…”

 

“His name is Shiro.”

Romero looks up from his notebook as Marie pulls to car door shut with a snap.

“Is that a first name or last name?”

“They don’t know. Only, Roy, I don’t know how we’re going to contact him. Apparently, he’s part of the Garrison.”

Romero puts the notebook down and pulls out his phone. “I guess then it’s time to pay a visit to Mitch Iverson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's short because I have no control over story structure apparently, but I promise the next one's longer! And we'll be seeing Keith and Shiro again :D


	6. Chapter 6

The walls of the Garrison are bathed in faint pink by the time Marie and Romero arrive. Somehow, Marie is not surprised to find Revathy Allen following them into the compound.

“You’re not allow to be—” Marie begins but is cut off by a warm travel mug of coffee being shoved into her hands.

“Maybe I’m not here with you,” suggests Revathy. “Maybe I just happened to end up here.”

That is not even remotely true. Revathy pushes another cup of coffee into Romero’s hands. He takes it without appearing to notice anything which Revathy seems to take as tactical agreement. Marie is too tired to argue. She follows Romero’s example and pretends not to notice the middle aged Indian woman walking behind them.

Commander Iverson, as it turns out, is the sort of man who can simultaneously look perfectly put together and yet also like he just got out of bed. Not a stitch is out of place, but he has an air that makes it perfectly clear how unhappy he is to awake at this hour.

Marie lets Romero take the lead as he explains the situation.

“…so we’re hoping you might be able to help us contact this person. They say his name is Shiro. Do you know—?”

Romero breaks off because Iverson’s expression has suddenly become thunderous. Iverson stomps to the door.

“Cole!” he barks. A security guard snaps to attention. “Get Shirogane! I don’t care if you have to drag him out of bed yourself. Tell him I want him here _yesterday!_ ” While the guard trots off, Iverson grinds his teeth. “If he isn’t there so help me…”

“Is he such a trouble maker?” says Marie, alarmed.

“He’s the best damn pilot this place has ever seen,” replies Iverson, which really doesn’t answer the question.

Revathy is twisting her hands and looks to be literally biting her lips. Marie suspects she has plenty she wants to say but is resisting drawing attention to herself to prevent getting thrown out. Romero asks Iverson a few more questions, but Iverson seems reluctant to answer in much detail until Shiro—or Shirogane—arrives. Marie is just beginning to wonder if Iverson is going to be ridiculously difficult about the whole thing and is ready to give him a piece of her mind, but the clattering of quick footsteps echoes down the hall. They came to an abrupt, professional halt just outside of Iverson’s door.

“Cole said you wanted me, sir?”

Shirogane is not what Marie had expected. For one thing, he’s _young_. From the Ryskamps’ description of a fighter pilot, she had expected someone near their early thirties. She wouldn’t put the young man in front of her as a day over twenty. He’s tall and fresh-faced, and with his square jaw and pretty eyes, he’s a bit too attractive for his own good. Unlike Iverson, it is abundantly clear that he has just rolled out of bed. His pants and boots might pass some sort of regulation, but the rumpled tank he’s wearing certainly would not. What’s more, he’s got a crease on one cheek from his pillow and his dark bangs are spiraling in every direction on the same side.

Iverson scowls. “Couldn’t have bothered to put on a shirt?”

“Cole said immediately, sir.” It’s all very well done. There isn’t a hint in his inflection or demeanor to suggests that Shiro is anything other than professional or sincere. But there’s twitch to the corner of his mouth that suggests Shiro knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

Marie had expected an brash, self-assured military man. She can’t decide if reality makes her feel better or worse.

Iverson either doesn’t notice the cheekiness or knows better than to take the bait. “This is Officer Romero. He’s working on an investigation and has requested to speak to you.”

Faint surprise flitters over Shiro’s face before settling back to pleasantly blank. He pulls his shoulders to perfect military bearing and extends his hand.

“Takashi Shirogane. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Pleasure is mine.” Romero juggles his notebook to shake his hand. “I’m here on the missing case of Keith Kogane. Do you know who that is?”

For a moment, Shiro only looks confused. At last he repeats, “Keith?”

“Yes. Ah—Ms. Keen?” Romero beckons and Marie steps forward, pulling up Keith’s file on her tablet.

“Yes. I am Keith Kogane’s social worker. He went missing last night, and we have reason to believe that you might have been in contact with him at the Southbend hover track.”

“Just flying, no races,” Shiro hurries to assure, glancing back at Iverson.

Iverson grumbles something that might have been “small blessings” under his breath. Shiro turns his attention back to Marie.

“I know a Keith. I don’t know if it’s the same one, though,” he admits.

“I have a picture.” Marie turns her tablet around to face him. “Could you recognize him?”

As soon as Shiro sees the picture, his expression stills and even before he answers, Marie knows.

They found it. Shiro knows something.

Apparently Revathy recognizes the same thing because she bursts forward. “Do you know him? Can you tell us where he is?”

Shiro startles. “Sorry. You are…?”

“I’m Keith’s foster mother.”

Shiro shuts down. His expression blanks, and he holds himself up straighter.

He turns back to Marie. “That might be him. What do you want to know?” It’s just a slight deviation in his tone, but Shiro is quite clearly no longer interested cooperating.

“Listen, son,” says Romero. “A kid is missing. We need all the information you can give us.”

Shiro meets his eyes head on. “And what if Keith doesn’t want to be found?”

“Shiro,” says Iverson. One word has Shiro pulling back into a perfect soldier’s bearing. “Whatever you’re trying to do, I promise it’s in your best interests to cooperate.”

Shiro seems to consider that for a long moment. For someone so young, he’s unusually good at hiding his emotions.

“Keith called me last night,” he says finally. “He was lost and needed a ride.”

"But where is Keith _now_?” cries Revathy.

Shiro doesn’t answer. The sudden stillness is broken by a long, exasperated groan from Iverson.

“ _Please_ tell me he is not on Garrison property.”

“He is not on Garrison property, _sir_ ,” Shiro parrots back perfectly.

Iverson drops his head into his hand. “Damn it, Shirogane. _Why?_ ”

“What else was I supposed to do?!” bursts out Shiro. Apparently, his control over his emotions isn’t as complete as if first seems. “I couldn’t let him just freeze to death!”

“Why not contact the police?” says Romero.

Shiro snorts. “I’m pretty sure that would have just made everything worse.”

Well, great, thinks Marie. Apparently Keith has found someone as suspicious of authority as he is.

Iverson lumbers to his feet with a low groan in the back of his throat. “Let’s go find him, then.”

Shiro doesn’t move. His gaze travels between everyone in the room, and he keeps frowning.

“Is something wrong?” asks Marie.

It takes Shiro a minute to answer, but when he does it’s with an expression that feels vaguely familiar. Normally Shiro’s reluctance to comply would be ringing all sorts of alarm bells in Marie’s head. But this doesn’t feel like guilt. Instead it feels…

“Keith ran away for a reason,” says Shiro. “Are you going to look out for his best interests or just drag him home again?”

Protective.

“It’s in Keith’s best interests to be looked after by competent adults,” reasons Romero.

“It’s in your best interests to comply with the law, cadet,” growls Iverson.

That second one seems to have more of an effect on Shiro. He acquiesces and leads them out of the office.

Revathy draws close to Marie. “Should we be worried about him?” Her flick toward Shiro.

Marie traces the straight line of his back, the stubborn set of his shoulders, and the steady clip to his gait that suggests confidence and a refusal to back down.

“I honestly don’t know.”

 

They end up in what Marie assumes are the student quarters—a buff girl with bedhead and pajamas steps out of one of the door, immediately spots their group and whistles, “What did you do this time, Shiro?” In response, Shiro subtly flips her off. But even without this charming young-people interaction, Marie still thinks that the deepening scowl on Iverson’s face is a pretty good indication of where they are.

Shiro stops in front of a door midway down the hall. But just before he hits the access pad, he suddenly hesitates.

“Uh, I know this looks bad,” he says. “But Keith really looked like he was getting hypothermia so…”

Marie doesn’t get what he’s getting at, but Iverson slaps his hand to his forehead and groans. “Good gracious, Shirogane.”

It’s all clear a few seconds later when Shiro opens his door, and the first thing Marie can see is a pair of pants clearly belonging to a much younger boy and a small set of boxers draped over a chair. There are cast off clothes strewn over almost every available surface. Marie makes out two shirts, a jacket, another pair of pants… The bed is rumpled and unmade, but the floor is clear. Despite clothes and papers scattered across the desk, Marie gets the impression that the room is normally a fairly orderly place.

“I’ll just…get him up,” says Shiro awkwardly. When no one stops him, he approaches the bed and this time Marie realizes that what she had assumed was just the scrunched up blanket on the bed actually has a tuft of rumpled black hair sticking out of it.

Marie’s heart squeezes and then starts beating very hard.

Shiro kneels next to the bed. He speaks, and it’s shockingly gentle.

“Keith. Hey, Keith, buddy, can you get up?”

The blankets shift and let out a low grumble. Shiro shakes them lightly with one hand.

“Keith. C’mon. Time to get up.”

Abruptly, the blankets explode into a motion. A small body kicks its way out of Shiro’s hand and squirms until it finds the corner where the bed meets the wall. Marie’s stomach is currently in a gymnastics competition with her heart. That’s Keith. They _found_ him!

Keith is a sight to see. His hair is falling in literally every direction, and he’s drowning a t-shirt and pants at least twice his size. His eyes dart around wildly until he spots who’s in front of him.

“Shiro?”

Marie has never been so relieved to hear a voice before.

“Hey, buddy,” says Shiro, and Keith relaxes, just slightly. He edges away from the wall.

“Do I need to go?”

“No! Of course not! But, uh, you know how you thought no one would be looking for you?”

Keith looks confused. Shiro chuckles awkwardly and taps his knuckles against the bed edge.

“Yeah. So it turns out you were _really_ wrong about that.”

Keith’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and horrified. “You didn’t—”

“No, I didn’t,” Shiro is quick to reassure. “Somehow they found me.”

Keith scrambles off bed, curling inward and toward the wall.

Marie and Romero have a quick, silent conversation that Romero wins. By the time Marie looks back, Keith has moved to put Shiro between himself and the door.

“Easy,” calls Romero, holding his hands out. “We’re here to help, Keith. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

Keith slides back further against the wall. He’s scowling tremendously now.

“Can I stay with him?” asks Shiro. He seems to have no qualms about his assigned role of impromptu bodyguard. “I can help.”

“I’m afraid not. I need to talk to Keith alone.”

Shiro can’t see because his back is to Keith, but Marie catches the desperate look at Keith shoots at him before his expression falls into a flat glare. She’s still pretty shaky on what exactly happened, but it occurs to her that one thing is clear:

Shiro isn’t the one Keith views as a threat.

Shiro turns to Keith and places a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to go better if you just go along with it,” he says like he hadn’t just had to receive the same advice from his commanding officer two minutes before. “I’ll be right here. It’s going to be okay.”

Keith folds his arms over his chest and glares at the ground. He mutters something that Marie can’t make out. “It’s going to be okay,” Shiro repeats. He meets Romero’s eyes, looking ready to say something but in the end just silently leaves Romero squatting down to question Keith. The door slides shut.

“Well, that’s something,” says Iverson.

“What happened with Keith?” demands Revathy immediately.

Shiro’s expression goes flat. “He wouldn’t tell me. I gave him my number because it was clear _someone_ needed to look out for him.”

Well, _that_ was awfully pointed. Marie leaps forward to stop the fire, but Revathy gets there first.

“I am glad to see we agree on that point.”

Shiro shuts up. Marie breathes a small sigh of relief, and luckily then Iverson offers a subject change.

“How did you meet this kid?”

Shiro relaxes a little, flashing a wry grin at Iverson. “He was making the same mistake I did. Flying in the races and wouldn’t stop winning.”

“He was _racing_?” cries Revathy.

At the same time, Marie gapes. “He can fly?”

It’s not that there’s any reason for Keith to not fly. It’s just… Marie doesn’t know the last time anyone could say Keith liked _anything_. Even a favorite color. For him to have a passion, something he’s invested in—This is major.

Meanwhile, Shiro is staring at Marie as if she’s just suggested the sun is blue.

“Yeah, Keith can fly.” He turns to Iverson, and suddenly his tough guy act is gone and his eyes are shining. “Sir, we have to get him into a simulator. You have no idea. We _have_ to see what he can do in there!”

Marie and Revathy share slightly shocked look at the new direction this is going. Iverson looks thrown.

“You think he could make a pilot?”

Shiro shakes his head, brimming with restrained energy now. “Make a pilot—Keith was _born_ a pilot. Bring him in here, and Keith could be the pilot of the century. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. The things he can pull off—He could beat my freshmen scores _easy_!”

Gone is the defensive, threatening young man. Shiro’s eyes are so bright they almost seem like stars in and of themselves. He’s practically quivering in excitement.

And Marie—Marie feels a bit like she just got punched in the solar plexus.

Because, look, Marie wants good for Keith. She always has, and she can name half a dozen other people who do as well. She wants Keith to be safe, to heal, stop hurting. She _hopes_ he can somehow manage to graduate high school, but she’d honestly settle for him being safe and alive right now.

It’s only right at this moment that she realizes that sounds a lot like she’s given up on Keith.

Because Shiro hasn’t.

Shiro sees a _future_ for Keith.

Before Marie can formulate anything to say to that, the door opens and Romero walks out.

“Well, as far as physical wellbeing is concerned, he’s okay. But we’re still in the dark as to what happened. Kid’s refusing to say a thing.”

“But he _is_ okay?” says Revathy.

“Do you have any idea why he won’t talk?” asks Marie.

“Wait,” says Shiro. “You left in in there? Alone?”

Romero frowns. “Do you see anyone else?”

Shiro swears. He smacks the access panel just in time for them to see a head of black hair disappear out the window.

“ _KEITH!_ ”

Shiro bolts across the room and throws himself through the window.

“SHIROGANE!” roars Iverson.

Shiro’s hair disappears, too.

“COLE, GET DOWN TO QUAD FOUR!” bellows Iverson. He’s already running down the hall with Romero close behind him. Marie hurries to the window. A story below, she can see Keith making a break for it with Shiro pelting full speed after him. All the coffee she’s had that night seems to bloom into a searing headache.

“Always has to chose the path of most resistance,” she mutters.

And then Revathy is at the window, screaming down at the distance. “ _How did he not break a leg?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I implying that Shiro got caught up in illegal hover racing when he was younger before Iverson pulled him out of it? Yes. Yes, I am. 
> 
> Also, I would like to apologize in advance for the liberties I'm taking with foster care and the legal system. I'm aware that I'm already stretching things, and it's probably just going to get worse because, well, plot. My excuse is that Voltron is set in The Future TM so maybe procedures have changed by then. Or something like that.


	7. Chapter 7

Shiro has a good twelve inches on Keith and a daily exercise regimen at the Garrison, but Keith is _fast_. The only advantage Shiro has is that he knows the environment. When Keith comes to an unexpected T between buildings, Shiro uses the wall to launch himself across the distance and full on tackles him. They crash into the ground in a tangle of dust and limbs.

Keith struggles frantically. “Geoff me! Geoff!”

“Keith! KEITH! Chill out for a second!” Shiro manages to maneuver so that he is no longer sprawled on top of Keith. He keeps hold of the kid’s arms, though.

Keith stops fighting him, but he doesn’t seem any calmer. He looks three seconds away from a panic attack, and Shiro wants to scream in frustration. Logically, he gets that if a child goes missing, the thing you do is contact the police, but that wasn’t the right call for _Keith_. If they couldn’t have just _waited_ —Shiro could have taken Keith to Major Fuller or Commander Holt, capable adults who could have figured things out _without_ putting Keith into fight or flight mode. But no, the world doesn’t work like that, and Shiro has a freaked out twelve year old in front of him, and none of this is _helping_.

_Patience yields focus._

Patience can go screw it.

“Keith! Really! What are you so scared of? C’mon, I’m trying to help!”

“You can’t,” spits Keith.

Well, that’s not the kind of thing you tell Shiro. He sets his jaw, determination taking over logic. “Yes, I can.”

Keith wretches himself to his feet, and Shiro follows him. “ _No_ , you _can’t_. Just leave me alone!”

“Not going to happen,” says Shiro, grinding his teeth. In the back of his head, he knows there’s a bigger conversation going on than this, and his mind is already skipping several steps ahead. He’s not going to leave Keith. He’s _not_. He’ll adopt Keith himself if he has to. Nineteen is old enough for that, right? Does the Garrison count enough as a job?

Think on that later, he decides. For now, he breathes out through his nose in an attempt to keep calm. “Look, Keith, is it that you don’t want to go home? If that’s it, I—”

“You can’t promise anything!” shouts Keith. He yanks against Shiro’s grip. “Let. Me. _Go!_ ”

Before Shiro can say anything, he hears pounding feet and they’re surrounded. Iverson and Officer Romero are there with two security guards, and behind them, Shiro can see Keith’s foster mom and his social worker. Meanwhile, Keith has stopped trying to break free, but when Shiro looks down, he can’t read his expression. He just knows it isn’t good.

Shiro has to bite back another surge of irritation. Can’t they see that literally _none this is helping?_ Keith isn’t some criminal. He’s a kid and freaked out of his mind! They need to _stop_.

“All right, Shirogane,” calls out Officer Romero, striding forward. “You’ve done enough. Time to step back now.”

Before Shiro can even decide if he’s going to comply, Keith bursts in front of him, bristling like an angry cat.

“Shut up! Shut UP!”

“Kid—”

“SHUT UP!” bellows Keith. “Shiro didn’t do anything! Stop BLAMING him!”

Shiro freezes, his hands still hanging where Keith had wrenched out of them _._

“Listen, we just need to—”

“You can’t touch him! DON’T HURT SHIRO!”

At this point, both Iverson and Officer Romero have stepped forward, and Keith, honest to goodness, looks like he’s ready to fight both of them. He’s maybe half their size, but his hands are balled and he is _ready_.

And Shiro… Well, Shiro has the vague idea that somehow he’s supposed to stop this, but he can’t because…

Because this is a twelve-year-old—a very scrawny twelve-year-old—ready to take down two full-grown men on his behalf, and yes, Shiro has already determined that he will do anything up to and including adoption for Keith, but he isn’t used to that kind of loyalty being _returned._

“You can’t punish Shiro!” yells Keith, still seconds away from a fight. “He never did anything wrong!”

The look Iverson sends Shiro says that he particularly disagrees with that statement, but he doesn’t say anything. Shiro is still reeling too much to attend.

Keith’s social worker massages the bridge of her nose. “No one is trying to hurt your friend, Keith.”

Shiro is behind Keith, and even he can tell that the glare Keith levels at Officer Romero is devastating. And suddenly, it clicks. The conversation Officer Romero had with Keith. Why Keith is freaking out now. He realizes how this must look: he is a young, single male, Keith is very vulnerable, and not one of them, including Shiro, knows why Keith went missing in the first place.

Lords, but it doesn’t make any of this _easier._

“Shiro. Is. _Good_ ,” snarls Keith, still quivering as if he’s ten times his actual size. “He didn’t do anything, so you should BACK OFF.”

Shiro drops his hand on Keith’s shoulder. It doesn’t have anything to do with stopping him and more just Shiro trying to stay upright. The shock is still strong in his system. He feels the way Keith’s muscles tense. Keith leans back into his hand, then rocks forward again, settling into his defensive crouch.

Shiro’s own protective nature is uncurling in his chest. If Keith flies off, Shiro’s not sure if he’s going to hold him back or join him.

“That is an excellent point.”

Keith’s foster mom speaks in a tone that’s mild but demands attention. Shiro had been prepared to dislike her since everything about Keith _screamed_ a bad home life, but she’s slowly gaining his respect. Now, she walks between Iverson and Officer Romero with her head held high and stops with her hands on her hips. “Why can’t we let Shiro help us?”

Officer Romero sighs. “The concern is that Keith, as someone young and vulnerable, is easy prey for manipulations.”

“Shiro did NOTHING!” yells Keith.

Keith’s social work sighs. “Keith is many things, Roy, but easily taken in is not one of them. Honestly, if Shiro can talk to Keith, we could use him. If he’s willing, that is.”

“I am,” says Shiro immediately. He feels Iverson’s eyes on him but ignores them. He already made his choice: Keith is _his_.

Officer Romero throws his hands up. “All right. Unless anyone else has a reason why this is a bad idea?” He looks at Iverson and the two security guards. Caleb Cole sends Shiro a look that says _This is by far the weirdest bind you have gotten yourself into_ , but it’s fond. “Let’s get going then.”

Keith’s social worker and foster mom flank him, but Iverson lays a hand on Shiro’s shoulder and pulls him away.

“Just a minute, Shirogane.”

“I have to be there, sir.”  It takes real effort to keep his voice acceptably polite.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Keith needs me,” Shiro bites out. He tries to control his breathing, but it does nothing. “I don’t care how long you give me KP or make me run. I’m going!”

“Now slow down there, Shiro.” Iverson’s hand on his shoulder is heavy enough Shiro wouldn’t be able to break free if he wanted to. But his voice is bordering on gentle. “I care about what happens to that kid as much as you.”

Shiro  _seriously_ doubts that. It must have shown on his face because Iverson squeezes his shoulder so hard that it hurts.

“No. Listen. I know I come across as a real hard-ass to you cadets. There’s a reason for that. The careers you’re aiming for don’t allow for mistakes. But whatever you think, I don’t exist to make you miserable.”

Shiro shakes his head. He knows that. “But Keith—”

“Is in a very vulnerable position. He needs help. I know that, and I want that for him. But do you really think you’re the one to offer that?”

Shiro bristles. He’s not, but he will be. He has to be.

Iverson sighs. “Your heart’s in the right place, son, but you don’t know what you’re getting into. This is more than just a lonely kid, Shiro.”

Shiro sets his shoulders and tries his best not glare. “I understand that, sir.”

“No, Shiro, you need to listen. With that kind of kid, if you’re in his life for a moment and then gone, you’re doing him more harm than good.”

“Sir,” snaps Shiro, sharper than he intends. “I _understand_ that.”

Shiro is trembling, his stomach shaking with emotions that it’s taking everything he has to hold back. He hates revisiting this. It makes him feels vulnerable—like someone has unhooked his insides and is wailing on them with a meat tenderizer. But he has to make Iverson see.

And see Iverson does. The realization is dawning on his face. Shiro may not be so completely lost like Keith, but he holds the scars in a different way. How he’s too independent. The way he forgets to— _doesn’t_ ask for help. His private nature and complicated relationship with authority. Shiro hates, hates, _hates_ being laid out like this. He’s not a foster kid anymore. He’s made his own way in the world, and he’s _okay_. But this isn’t about Shiro; it’s about Keith. And if this is what he needs to do to be there for Keith, he’ll do it.

“So you do,” murmurs Iverson with new respect in his voice.

“Sir, I _need_ to be there,” says Shiro.  

“And you’re going to see this through whether or not I try to stop you, aren’t you?” he grumbles. Iverson squints up at the sky, scowling heavily. “All right. I’m only saying this once, but if you happen to miss today’s classes, your attendance record won’t reflect that.”

“Sir?”

Iverson glares at him. “Don’t screw this up, Shirogane. Dismissed.”

Shiro blinks once then sprints off. He starts in the direction of the others but abruptly veers left. Actual clothes first. He has to look presentable.

Then Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not seen: Iverson assuring Marie and the rest that Shiro is a responsible, admirable student and absolutely someone they should trust. He does care, he just doesn't let it show :)


	8. Chapter 8

Keith’s life is falling down around his ears, and he has no idea how it happened. Actually, he has no real idea what’s going on _now_ either. Just that he failed to make it to the abandoned shack in the desert and now he has to face the agency and the law and all the stupid adults.

That much Keith can deal with. He’s used to the whole song and dance where they pretend like they care about him, just “trying to do what’s best,” make a whole bunch of made-up accusations because no one listens to Keith and no one would believe him even if they did, and then he gets restrictions or chucked somewhere new to “straighten him out.” It’s an old script, and one Keith knows by heart. He’s going to hate it and he wishes they would stop playing at pretending to care and just get on to the part where they kick him out, but it’s something he knows how to deal with.

But this time they’re trying something new. Somehow—for reasons Keith can’t begin to phantom—they have decided to bring Shiro into this, and Shiro, for equally mystifying reasons, has agreed to go along with it.

They’re both riding in the back of the cop’s car to the agency, Shiro’s knees crammed against the seat because “I insist you take the front, Ms. Keen.” Even squashed into back of the car, Shiro looks intimidatingly put together. It’s the first time Keith has seen him in uniform. The orange of the jacket is honestly hideous, but Shiro make the whole thing look dignified and important. He’s combed his hair, too, and just seems to a sit a little differently. It brings out the straight line of his nose, the square of his shoulders, and generally just makes him look like someone to listen to. Keith almost wants to hate him for it.

He  _does_ hate Ms. Keen and everyone for roping Shiro into this. Bad enough that Keith has to be criticized and belittled and humiliated. They couldn’t just leave it at that. No, they have to bring Shiro in to make sure he knows _exactly_ how much of a screw up Keith is.

And look, Keith knows it’s dishonest to pretend he is anything less. He knows he’s stubborn and difficult and never what anyone wants. He suspects the only reason he’s still around is that it’s probably illegal to stamp “lost cause” onto his forehead and just be done with it. He _is_ a lost cause, and they’re just wasting time and resources trying to change what can’t be fixed.

But Shiro hadn’t known that. Shiro didn’t _act_ like that. When he was with Shiro, he could pretend he was more than the socially hopeless foster kid that no one wanted. As long as he kept his mess very carefully under wraps, Shiro never had to know.

He knew it was wrong to lie like that. But it wasn’t like it was hurting anyone! Shiro dropped hints of Keith joining the Garrison one day, like Keith was good enough for that, and Keith was basking in it. He knew he would never actually make it, not a screwed up nobody like him, but it had been intoxicating to have someone believe he _could_.

And now Shiro, the one person who’s ever seen anything in Keith, is going to see exactly how worthless he actually is and Keith hates the entire world for doing that. Couldn’t he keep this _one lie?_ Even if he didn’t get to keep Shiro (he knew he would never get to keep Shiro) did they really have to grind his face in it like this? 

Shiro hasn’t spoken to him for the entire ride. He has kept his gaze straight ahead, his expression stony. He’s probably already figured out where Keith lied. Keith curls against the door on his side, trying to make it clear how much he does not care.

It doesn’t work. Thinking about Shiro hurts too much. Instead, Keith pours his energy into attempting to drill his hatred into the back of the cop’s head until they arrive at the agency.

The agency a depressing building. The walls are all pealing grey paint and lit by the old kind of LEDs that have too much blue to be anything but forbidding. All the ceiling tiles are either water-stained or broken, and not a single piece of furniture has its corners in tact. Keith sees Shiro take it all in and his mouth turn down in distaste. Instantly, Keith feels as worked over and worthless as each of those broken chairs.

But the universe isn’t done with him yet. No, because Mr. Allen is waiting in lobby for him too, here to join the hanging party, and Ms. Keen sweeps the whole jury into a cramped conference room where the metal chairs that screech loudly against the tile every inch they’re moved. Imitation-wood linoleum is peeling off the table they settle around, and everyone, _everyone_ is looking at Keith.

“Well,” says Ms. Keen, dropping a banged-up and bursting manila folder onto the table. Keith’s well familiar with the look of his file. “I suppose the biggest question to start out with is: what happened?”

She directs that at Keith. He folds his arms across his chest and refuses to answer. No way is he playing their game. He already knows whatever _he_ says happened, no one will believe him. He just wants the adults to make up whatever explanation they’re going to use to blame him and get done with it already.

Ms. Keen looks at Shiro, who seems so stiff and proper in the seat next to Keith. “I told you," he says. "I just got a call from Keith saying he was in the desert and needed a ride.”

“The desert?” repeats Mr. Allen. He’s rather short, bald man, and he’s still has the audacity to act like he cares. “How did he end up in the desert?”

Mrs. Allen launches in right away, and then everyone else joins in.

“We don’t know at all what happened. I was worried about kidnapping—”

“Well, that’s a little extreme—”        

“It is possible he was hiking?”

“In  _October?_ ”

“Maybe he got lost coming home from somewhere?”

“Someone  _must_ have taken him. You can’t get out of the city in a day by foot—” 

“Goodness gracious, did someone just _leave_ him out there?”

“I _flew_ ,” snaps Keith. He doesn’t have patience for this, any of this. “I took a hover, and I flew out there myself, okay?”

Beside him, Shiro groans. “ _Keith_.” But Keith doesn’t mind him. This is all just a set up to make Shiro abandon him, and Keith is already hardening his heart to it.

“A hover?” says Mr. Allen. “Where would you get a hover?”

The cop is frowning at Keith. “Hovers are very dangerous, son. If you don’t know how to fly one—”

And then things fly off script because Mrs. Allen interrupts, “Apparently, Keith does know how to fly. And he’s very good at it, according to Shiro.”

What— _Why_ does that matter? They’re going to condemn him anyway. What does it matter if Keith has one thing he’s semi-good at?

Besides, he’s not that good. He crashed that hover last night.

“That still doesn’t explain where the hover came from,” says Ms. Keen. The look she’s giving Keith says, _you’re making trouble for me_. Keith glares back.

Shiro abruptly slaps both hands onto the table. “Look, isn’t anyone else interested in _why_ Keith flew a hover into the desert?”

There’s a slight pause while everyone looks at Shiro and seems to seize him up. If Shiro finds that intimidating, he doesn’t let it show. His stares them all down, his expression determined but not insolent the way Keith normally looks, and Keith feels a pang of jealousy. But that’s stupid. Keith always knew Shiro was the kind person people listened to. That’s what it made it so amazing that Shiro listened to _him_.

Except Shiro won’t listen to him anymore. Keith needs to remember that.

The cop (Keith honestly doesn’t remember his name) frowns at Shiro because of course he does. He doesn’t like Shiro, apparently just because Shiro likes _Keith_ , and Keith feels his blood boil over again. Yeah, because helping Keith is some kind of crime now.

“Shirogane, if you know something, I need you to be forthcoming with it.”

“I don’t know what happened,” repeats Shiro. “Keith wouldn’t tell me. But I know something _did_ happen, and I think that’s a little more important than some hover.”

Mr. Allen turns to his wife. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

_Liars_ , thinks Keith.

Ms. Keen leans forward. “Keith, I know this is hard for you.” She speaks with that special _you know I’m here for you_ tone that Keith doesn’t believe for a second. “Everyone gets that. But you have to at least _try_. Running away—”

“But why?” interrupts Mrs. Allen. “I thought things were going well for Keith.”

Keith wants to laugh except he can’t find the air as the walls start closing in on him. Going _well_ for Keith? It’s honestly amazing how every single adult knows the same lines. They twist everything. Suddenly they didn’t do anything wrong. Everything was going fine. _Keith_ messed it up.

Keith had to leave. He had to! He knows it to his very bones. It sings in his veins, a verifiable siren of the instincts honed from years of always having to adjust to a new place, of always watching his back. Keith _knows_ he couldn’t stay.

But they’re not going to let that happen. They’re going to turn it all around, change the rules on him, and suddenly it will all be his fault. Of course, nothing he thought was true. That would make no sense. Obviously, it was all different and he should have seen it from the beginning.

Keith  _knows_ he didn’t have another choice. He also knows that by the time they’re done here, it will be perfectly, blindingly clear that Keith was the one in the wrong in every conceivable way. And they’ll have done it so perfectly that even Keith won’t be able to defend himself.

“Keith, why don’t you tell us about why you ran away?” says Mr. Allen mildly. Keith doesn’t understand how everyone can _lie_ so damn well. “Did something happen at school?”

Is he—is he _kidding_? Is this his idea of a sick joke?

“Was it the other kids?” Mrs. Allen puts in, just as good a liar as her husband. “Are you still having trouble fitting in?”

Keith tenses in his chair. Literally everyone is between him and the door. There’s no way for him to escape.

“C’mon, kid,” growls the cop. “You have to answer at least some of the questions.”

“Let up!” Shiro bursts out. “Can’t you see he’s panicking?”

Keith is _not_ panicking _._ He doesn’t panic. But every face in the room is focused on him, and the air is too thick to breathe. Keith holds his breath and stays very, very still. Fidgeting is bad. The way he wrings his hands or runs his fingers over the seams of his clothing is bad and wrong and will only condemn him. He crosses his arms very tight across his chest to prevent any of that.

“Guys! Give him some _space_!”

They look away, and Keith dares take a shallow breath. He glances at Shiro—and immediately cowers in his seat a little.

Shiro looks _furious._

Everyone knows Keith has a temper. He has no self-control and a tendency to explode with little to no provocation. But his temper burns out quickly.

Shiro, though, Shiro hasn’t lost it yet. Instead it builds and builds, like pressure behind a dam, and his ability to control it is as terrifying as the force itself. He’s angry, he’s ready to boil over, but he’s going to choose _exactly_ what gets hit.

Keith knows, instinctively, that Shiro can absolutely decimate anything he chooses.

There’s a lot of exchanged looks from everyone in the room, but no one’s looking at Keith anymore. He can’t begin to read their expressions, and he isn’t going to try. Instead, he waits anxiously for what Shiro is going to do next.

Shiro’s chair scrapes loudly on the tiles. Is he going to leave? Keith feels a pang deep in his gut at the thought. He isn’t ready to lose Shiro yet.

But Shiro doesn’t stand. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees him turn so that he’s facing Keith and he bends over, bracing his elbows on his thighs, letting his hands hang open between his knees. The anger in his expression is gone. Normally, Keith would find that immediate cause for suspicion, but Shiro has a way of projecting sincerity like no one Keith has ever met before.

Glory, but Keith _wants_ to trust Shiro.

“Hey, Keith?” Shiro’s voice is gentle, but—unlike everyone else in the room—it isn’t patronizing. “Look, I know this is really difficult for you.”

Keith doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what Shiro wants or what he’s supposed to do. It seems best to stay silent.

“I told you last night I wouldn’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to,” continues Shiro, and Keith remembers that. It had been such a _relief_. But if Shiro is taking it back…

“It’s still true,” promises Shiro. “I won’t make you do anything. If you talk, it’s your choice. I won’t force you.”

Keith suspects there’s a “but” to that statement, and there is.

“But I think there’s something going on here that only you know. It would help us—” Keith’s nose wrinkles, and Shiro quickly revises. “It would help _me_ help you if you could tell me what that was.”

Shiro waits patiently, still calm, for Keith to answer. But Keith doesn’t have anything. He’s confused and trapped and afraid because as soon as he tells them what _he_ knows, they’ll tell him he’s wrong. That he’s stupid and a liar and only out to make trouble, and Keith just doesn’t want to _deal_ with that. He’s sick of everyone always changing the rules on him and then blaming him when things go wrong.

Except for Shiro. Shiro has always just casually broken all the rules Keith has learned to live by.

“Will you tell me why you flew to the desert?”

And Keith realizes he wants Shiro to know. Shiro is the _one person_ who hasn’t seen Keith as a lost cause, and Keith desperately wants him to know the truth before they twist it all and make Keith the bad guy again.

Keith’s lips are stiff and numb.

“I had to.”

The room bursts out into rustling and murmuring, but Shiro’s eyes don’t leave Keith. “Yeah?”

Very tentatively, Keith nods.

Shiro waits until it’s clear that Keith isn’t going to say more. “Want to tell me why?”

 Keith’s had this method attempted on him before. Treating him with silence until he talks, a tug-of-war of wills—which, joke’s on them, Keith can play to the end of time. He refuses to lose. But this feels different. _Shiro_ feels different. And maybe it’s just that Keith likes Shiro and desperately wants Shiro to like him. Or that Shiro hasn’t had time to perfect the crappy guidance counselor fake concern.

But… Shiro backed off last night. He understood there were things Keith didn’t want to talk about and left it there. And he’s here and he’s waiting like Keith is the only thing that matters in the room—

And the scary thing about Shiro when he listens is you get the feeling that he’s actually, you know, _listening._

It makes Keith want to do scary things. Like hope, ridiculously, that Shiro will believe him.

Shiro rolls his shoulders back—Is that _it_? Is he giving up? Keith lurches forward. He can’t find the courage to look at Shiro, but he speaks to the floor.

“I got in a fight.”

Guilt and shame and that heavy, heavy weight that never seems to leave press down on him because— _that’s who he is, he’s never able to change it, he tried so hard_ —

“Okay,” says Shiro. Keith can’t look at him, shame acid in his throat. “Um…”

Keith chances a glance at Shiro through his bangs, and his expression isn’t quite what Keith’s expecting. His eyebrows are drawn together—that’s a sign people are mad, right? But he isn’t radiating the same intense fury from earlier. Maybe this is a different kind of anger?

But when Shiro speaks it doesn’t _sound_ like anger. “Why…? Um. What makes that so important?”

Keith hunches in. “I’m not allowed to get in fights.”

Shiro’s eyebrows really are bunched together a lot. But he’s also chewing on the corner of his lip. Does that mean he’s confused instead of angry?

But why would Shiro be confused?

“All right,” says Shiro. “So… What happens when you get in a fight?”

Automatically, Keith flinches deeper into his seat. He tries to temper he reaction, but it’s already too late. With all the deliberate casualness he can manage, he raises and lowers one shoulder.

Shiro still looks confused. “Do you know what happens?”

Somehow, somewhere, Keith finds the courage to whisper.

“Consequences.”

Someone’s voice clicks, but before they can even finish drawing breath, Shiro whips around and _glares._ And that’s when Keith knows Shiro really isn’t mad at him. Because the bunched up looks he was giving him before are _nothing_ to what he’s wearing now.

The person shuts up, and Shiro turns back to Keith, his expression calm again. It’s kind of scary the way Shiro can split up his anger like that but comforting, too, in a weird way.

“Keith…” he says, studying Keith like he’s a puzzle he can figure out if he just stares hard enough. “Do you know what the consequences _are_?”

Keith doesn’t know how to answer that. Because on the one hand, _No._ He doesn’t know if it’ll be cleaning or being confined to his room or no meals or just refusal to talk to him. But on the other hand, **_Yes_** _._ The Allens made it _very clear_ what he needed to do to stay on their good side. And he failed that. He doesn’t know what the consequences are, but he knows that the brief good period is over and he had to escape before he got trapped when things go the way they always do. A faint flicker of panic flutters behind his breastbone. He _had_ to.

“Well, I guess that’s the bottom of it,” says the cop. “Kid didn’t want to face punishment.”

Frustration battles with the panic in his chest, made worse because the cop is right. Keith didn’t want to face punishment—but he wasn’t trying to be lazy, either! He—it’s so messy and confusing and he can’t make the words right but— _bleach in his stinging, crackled knuckles—the kitchen floor and a toothbrush—“If you get in another fight, Keith, there are going to have to be consequences”—_

“Well, I guess that does make sense,” nods Mr. Allen. “Pretty extreme choice though.”    

“Keith tends to pick extreme options,” sighs Ms. Keen. “I think he panicked.”

Mrs. Allen gives a little laugh. “Poor Keith. He must have misunderstood. Consequences aren’t that scary.”

Keith feels hot and cold at the same time, frustrated by how it’s all playing out like it always does and yet he can do nothingto stop it. He had to leave. He _had_ to before he got stuck or kicked out or—don’t they understand? They _told_ him that! And now they’re acting like none of that was true, but it _was_. Keith _knows_ it. They promised it!

Mrs. Allen continues on, “Really, the only punishments we use are grounding and removal of privileges. I don’t know where Keith got the idea—”

A loud _screech!_ as Shiro throws his chair back so hard it topples over.

“SERIOUSLY? Are you FREAKING kidding me! Aren’t at least ONE of you supposed to know something about kids?”

“Shiro…” begins Ms. Keen.

Shiro slams both hands down onto the table, nearly knocking it over. “You think this is all KEITH? That KEITH is the one doing all the misunderstanding here?”

“Listen—”

“No, YOU listen! I don’t know Keith’s history, but there should be at least someone in this room that does!” Shiro jabs a finger at Keith’s bulging file. “Are you telling me that there isn’t ONE THING in there that would tell Keith that ‘consequences’ means he needs to leave? That there’s not ANYTHING that might make him more jumpy than your average kid? You think it’s KEITH’S fault he didn’t believe your punishments were harmless?”

Ms. Keen sets her shoulders. “Shiro, I understand your frustration,” she states. “This is a truly painful misunderstanding—”

But Shiro _isn’t done yet._ He digs in, bearing his weight on his knuckles against the table. And though he stops shouting, his voice is cold and twice as dangerous.

“Oh, there’s been a misunderstanding all right,” snarls Shiro. “But you’ve got it all wrong. Keith didn’t misunderstand anything. YOU all misunderstood KEITH.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was a kid, my dad's main form of discipline when I was acting up was to tell me there would be "consequences" if I kept going. Those consequences were basically things like no TV until you finish the dishes or no more computer games for the week, but my dad is this really mild-tempered man who I don't think I've ever seen legitimately angry...
> 
> So, naturally, I was scared stiff of him and his "consequences." To this day, the word "consequences" still invokes in me a sort of dreaded "Oh crap. Things just got serious now." It's just a scary word, okay?
> 
> I never tried to run away to the desert though. That part of kid logic belongs to Keith alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take take a brief break to dive deeper into Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys thought it was going to be all Keith, didn't you? Well, think again! This chapter has been in my head since the very beginning, and I'm excited to share it with you.

_9 years earlier_

“Takashi! That. Is. ENOUGH.”

Shiro looks up from the shattered plate on the floor, red still tainting his vision. He hates that she calls him Takashi. Takashi is his private self, the one that he keeps buried and protected from everyone else, and it feels like invasion of the worst kind for her to come in and just _take_. But she’s his mother. She’s the one who gave him the name, which means she should have a right to use it, right? Except it feels like stealing when she does, and he wants to belong to her but he doesn’t and it all leaves him feeling _wrong_ and trapped and stretched in too many directions.

Akiko Shirogane draws his attention with a sharp click of her tongue. She does not look like he remembers. She’s thinner, her cheeks hollow now and her nose looks sharper. Her hair is streaked with grey and cut in a chin-length bob instead of the dark bun he remembers. She wears _jeans._ But the biggest difference is the sharp look of steel in her grey eyes that Shiro has never seen before.

It’s that look that she’s aiming at him now as she holds out a broom and a dustpan. “Clean it up.”

“No,” Shiro snaps.

Akiko just stares him down. It had been an unpleasant realization for Shiro to realize this new mother was no longer someone who he could beat in a war of wills.

“You broke it. Now you must clean it up, Takashi.”

Like his name is a key word of some magic spell, Shiro starts working, grinding his teeth together and growling all the while. He had thought everything would be better when he got his mom back, but nothing has turned out the way he had planned. They’re not in the apartment he remembers. He doesn’t have the same clothes anymore or even the same food. His mother speaks English to him now (and worse: Shiro isn’t sure he would even understand Japanese anymore if she did speak it). She doesn’t act the same or even look the same, and Shiro is just so _angry._ He doesn’t know why. Just that nothing is the way he wants, and he feels wildly out of control. He oscillates between desperately trying do everything right so that he can stay and explosive fits of temper. He still fights for perfect grades in school and then gets in fistfights on the playground. He breaks plates, walls, skin, furniture just to prove he can _—Takashi Shirogane was here. And you had better **listen**._

(He doesn’t think about how he doesn’t have the words for anyone to listen _to_.)

Shiro just wants to go back. His old mother would have coddled and loved him, he’s sure of it. The mother he remembers was quiet and soft-spoken and gentle. Akiko doesn’t often raise her voice, but she is firm and she doesn’t budge an inch. She wants Shiro to talk about how he feels. Shiro doesn’t _talk_. Just like he doesn’t let people into his private self that she’s already ripped from him.

And she keeps doing weird things. Uncomfortable things. Pushing beyond the bounds of what Shiro wants for his mother. Shiro comes home one day to find an old, rusting skeleton of a machine in what little they have a front yard.

“What’s that,” he says with as much indifference as he can manage in his ten-year-old body.

“A hover bike,” says Akiko. She has her hair tied back by an American flag bandana, and it’s just _wrong._

“It’s broken,” says Shiro.

“Not so badly,” says Akiko. She pats the seat where the leather has cracked and split. “It will take a lot of work, but I think we’ll be able to make it fly.”

“No, you can’t,” says Shiro. He folds his arms over his skinny chest. “I bet _Dad_ could have, but _you_ can’t.”

For a moment, Akiko’s expression falters. The cracks form and she’s about to break—But then she rolls back her shoulders and smiles. “It’s called learning, Takashi. That’s what the internet is for.”

Akiko’s new steel means she does just that, and she drags Shiro along with her. Even as he only folds his arms and pouts, she drags him out to junkyards looking for parts, shoves tools into his hands that he refuses to use, pours over instructions in English for so long that Shiro is forced to help out of sheer impatience. Oh, and that’s not all. No, they have to go to garages and machinists, and Akiko has to ask a million and one embarrassing questions. Or _Shiro_ has to because they pretend not to understand Akiko’s accent.

To be clear: Shiro fights her every chance he gets. He’s difficult, physical, lashing out with fists and sharp barbs, intending to hurt. And Akiko is like the rust they’re slowing carving off the bike. Brittle, flaked, easy to puncture—except under every layer, there’s another layer, just as rusty and paper-thin as the one before, but endless. Shiro’s learning he can shatter every single one of her layers, but there’s something else to his mother, hidden behind all the fragility, a core that he can’t touch.

“It’s not about finding what will break you, Takashi,” Akiko says while she works to muscle out a rusted screw. “It’s about picking up the pieces and fighting on anyway. The only person who can decide you have to quit is you.”

At last, when they turn the key the engines cough, splutter, and actually stay on. After some more fine-tuning and testing, Akiko declares the hover ready. They borrow a truck from the neighbors and pull a trailer up to the mountains. And Shiro is a right _brat_ about all of it. He’s cranky and slow and makes a big deal of every strap he has to buckle over the hover despite being up a whole hour before he needed to be that morning. Because he’s not excited about this. He’s _not._ There’s no way he’s actually interested in something his mom thinks is cool.

Shiro takes control of the music and plays the loudest, angriest music he has to express his opinion. But by the time they reach the dirt parking lot that counts as a trailhead, even Shiro can’t hold on to his bad mood. Sulking is exhausting when maybe, _possibly_ that isn’t what he actually wants to be doing. But he’s still not excited, okay?

Together, they get the hover off the trailer. Akiko fills a beat up backpack with water, snacks, and a small toolkit (the hover still looks like something out of a junkyard), and straps it down behind the two turbines. “Ready, Takashi?” she calls as she climbs onto the seat. She moves differently around the hover. Sharper, matches the new shape of her shoulders, the angular lines of her nose. But there’s a fluidity there as well that Shiro can’t place.

“Come on,” she says, practically pulling Shiro on behind her. She pulls his arms around her waist. “Stay close. The key is to lean when I lean, okay?”

_Familiarity._ That’s the thing he hadn’t been able to identify. And then it occurs to Shiro, just two seconds before Akiko turns the key, that his mother of old _doesn’t know how to fly a hover._ He can’t even picture her getting on one.

The engines kick on with splutter. The hover rises a few feet above the ground, buzzing. Akiko works the throttle. They shoot forward, flying at the brown outhouse. But Akiko twists the handles bars and _leans_ , and they skim past it at a twenty-degree angle with the ground. Akiko swings them back flat. “Still got it,” she murmurs. She shifts her weight, leaning forward and then they _go_.

The hover skims over the golden-brown grass as they cut through the sparse forest, trees fuzzing into blurs when Shiro tries to look too close. Wind whips at his hair, and the engines, now settled into gruff-like growl, vibrate in his chest. Every time Akiko pulls them into a turn, Shiro’s stomach swoops like a pendulum. Before he can decide if he likes the feeling or not, Akiko pulls them to a stop in front of a large, empty meadow.

“That should be far enough,” she says to herself. And then she shuts down the engines and slides off. Shiro leaps forward, protests bursting on his tongue, but she floors him with her next words.

“Do you want to give it a try, Takashi?”

Shiro is flabbergasted. He leans towards at the beat-up and worn handlebars, almost magnetically drawn to them, and yet he hesitates, something in him saying it’s not that simple. That he doesn’t just get this.

“I can?”

Akiko smiles, those new lines framing her eyes. “Well, that’s what we’re here to figure out, isn’t it? Maybe you’re a little young, but I bet you can handle it.” She sends Shiro a conspirator grin, and, just like those engines, something kick-stars in Shiro’s chest and suddenly his heart is _buzzing_.

He scoots forward eagerly on the seat, his heart beating in time with the turbines, and his hands hover over the handlebars—too wide of his skinny arms—not making contact, still worried there’s a catch. He’s going to grab on and then it’s all going to dissolve and he’ll fall. But Akiko keeps smiling at him, and Shiro, nervous though he is, is intrigued more. He reaches out, setting his hands over well-worn grooves from much larger hands. And then, finally, he closes his grasp.

The vibrations of the engines travel all the way up his arms, through his shoulders, and shaking something lose in his chest. Shiro grips harder, the humming quickly turning his fingers thumb—and grins.

“Scoot up a little.” Akiko pushes him in the small of his back so that he’s right up against the engine. He feels the hover rock as she climbs on behind him. “Put your feet on the pegs.” She nudges his feet into place where her toes. “Now shift forward. There. Put your weight on the ball of your foot. Heel down. Stable?” The hover is roaring inside his chest, and Shiro has never felt anything like it. He thinks he’s going to have to have his hands physically ripped from the handlebars because he’s not going to let go willingly.

“All right.” Akiko’s voice is low and steady in his ear. She reaches around him to point. “Now do you see what’s in front of you? That’s the throttle. Those are gears. _This—_ ” Akiko curls Shiro’s fingers around the silver bars in front of the hands “—is the break. On the hands, not the feet. Your left foot is the clutch.”

 Shiro shifts and listens as she walks him through starting the turbines and then getting the hover to move. His first attempts are short and jerky, but he picks up on it rapidly. Soon he’s working the gears while climbing a slight hill. With every stall, he learns something new, picking up again, furious and determined to get it right. The roar of the turbines turns into a purr. Shiro’s figuring it out. He’s _getting it._ He’s making large S-curves in the meadow. And then he’s weaving through the trees of the forest. And then he’s shifting into a higher gear and Akiko’s hands are over his, helping dig into a turn as he learns how to play chicken with canyon walls.

“Lean. More. There!” They reach the crest of their arc and start to fall back to earth. “Give it more gas! Go! Go! Go!”

With a _whoosh_ they hit land and shoot forward, buoyed on a pocket of air. The wind is tearing at his hair, making his eyes sting, and his mouth is dry from yelling. Laughing. He’s _laughing_.

“Faster, Takashi! Go!”

Shiro catches a glimpse of his mother’s face, grey hair broken free of its short ponytail, her eyes gleaming.

“GO!”

Grinning excited, vicious, determined, Shiro stands up on the pegs, skinny arms and skinny legs, and he’s encircled by his mother and he’s _free_.

That day, flying through forgotten California wilderness, Shiro thinks he’s found half of his soul.

He finds the other half later that night, hanging his head out the truck window as he gapes at the night sky. Akiko pulls over so he can scramble out and stare, his head tilted back to the point his neck kinks. He’s never been somewhere where he could see the night so clearly. The starlight is crisp and clear and so bright that the night sky looks almost as blue as it does during the day. There are just so _many_. Shiro spins in a circle, still staring straight up trying to drink them all in, until he makes himself dizzy. The stars are so clean and bright and every time he blinks he thinks he sees more, hidden behind the brightness of others, winking and glimmering, and Shiro thinks—No. He _knows_. They’re speaking to him. They’re _for_ him. There’s something up there for him; he just has to find it.

Shiro hears the truck door shut and realizes his mouth has been gaping open. He shuts it fast as Akiko comes to stand beside him.

“It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?” Stars reflect in her grey eyes, the same eyes that Shiro has. She looks up at the sky, too, a smile on her face that Shiro can’t quite read. “You know, I was going to be an astronaut when I was younger.”

Shiro hasn’t thought of his mother being anything besides his mother. Astronaut. Hover biker. It never occurred to him that there might be more to her than he saw.

“Why weren’t you?” demands Shiro.

Akiko shrugs at the stars. It’s hard to tell if her voice is bitter or just sad. “My father said I was too stupid to be a scientist.” She sighs. “And I guess I believed him.”

While Shiro is still frowning at that, Akiko lifts her hand from his shoulder and ruffles his hair. “But you, Takashi. I know you can do anything if you want to.”

Shiro spends of the rest of the ride home staring at the sky—at least until the excitement of the day catches up with him and he falls asleep with his cheek plastered against window. Akiko ends up carrying him to bed even if he should definitely be too big for that. His dreams are filled with the rumble of engines and the night sky and feeling of swooping and sinking.

That’s the night that Shiro knows: he’s going to space. And he’s going to fly there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Keith and all his drama next chapter :)


	10. Chapter 10

_Present_

“Keith didn’t misunderstand anything! YOU all misunderstood KEITH.”

There’s a ringing silence in the room, or maybe there’s not and Keith just can’t process it. Shiro… Shiro did that. Shiro _said_ that. No one has ever, ever, _ever_ done that. No one has said Keith was _right_.

It’s almost enough to make Keith believe he was wrong all along. No way did that actually happen.

But the seconds tick by, and Shiro’s still there. He’s still all broad shoulders and barely controlled fury, ready to stare down the entire table. And for _Keith._

It can’t be real. There’s no way. At the same time, Keith feels something unfold and expand in his chest, like a kaleidoscope or a paper lantern, thin and airy. He feels…

Safe _._

The sensations throws him so bad, Keith doesn’t realize Mr. Allen has gotten up and come beside him until he’s _right there_ , and he jumps badly. Mr. Allen is too close. Keith scoots away, closer to Shiro.

And, weirdly enough, Mr. Allen backs off.

He steps back until he’s out of Keith’s personal space and crouches down below Keith’s eye level. Through his eyelashes, Keith can observe him without making eye contact. Which would be helpful if Keith had _any idea what to make of this._

“So punishments aren’t a good incentive for you?” says Mr. Allen.

Keith has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. In his desperation, he glances at Shiro who is studying Mr. Allen with a serious expression. But when Shiro catching Keith looking at him, he offers him a small smile.

Keith’s heart kicks in like a static shock. It’s the first time this all started—Shiro _smiled_ at him. Maybe it’s not all ruined?

But Mr. Allen has to interrupt. “I think we can work something else out. I hear you like to fly?”

What is going  _on?_ Keith wants to run, but Shiro’s hand comes down on his shoulder, warm, heavy, and gentle. “Hear him out,” he murmurs. Keith looks at him and gets another heart-sparking smile.

Well. If Shiro thinks it’s a good idea, Keith could be willing to try.

Mr. Allen gives his proposition. “I have a buddy who does test flights for the Garrison. How about you keep out fights for two weeks, and I’ll get him to let you watch one of their flights?”

Keith stares.

Shiro looks down at him and then back at Mr. Allen. “I think Keith needs more clarification.”

“No punishments,” explains Mr. Allen. “No restrictions. And you won’t have to do any chores beyond what’s already on the chart.”

“ _Well_ …” begins Mrs. Allen, but there’s a flurry of motion and murmurs from Ms. Keen. Suddenly, Mrs. Allen’s expression clears. “Of _course_ you don’t have to go beyond that, Keith!”

“You do understand the job chart?” checks Mr. Allen.         

Tentatively, Keith nods.

“Are you okay with that?”

Well, Keith doesn’t _like_ doing chores, but he can live with that.

He thinks.

Keith’s heart starts pounding very hard. Normally, Keith _never_ asks questions. He doesn’t need to give people another excuse to call him stupid or make fun of him. But Shiro is there, giving him courage.

“You won’t change it?”

“I won’t change…?”

“The chart.”

Understanding and pity floods Mr. Allen’s face. “No, Keith. We won’t change the chart.”

Keith doesn’t want the pity. He would much rather the Allens just leave him alone.

Except… Is that what Mr. Allen has just _offered_? 

Apparently Keith is silent for too long because Ms. Keen peers down at him. “Well, Keith? Is that going to work?”

Keith looks at Shiro. “I don’t get it.”

Shiro bursts into laughter and immediately stuffs his hand into his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, obviously still choking back laugher. “Sorry. Just—your face.”

Keith glares at him. Shiro sends him a cheeky grin back but reluctantly sobers.

“They’re offering you a rewards system. Instead of punishing you when you do something wrong, they’ll reward you when something goes right.”

“Oh,” says Keith.

“We’d really love you to stay with us,” says Mrs. Allen, smiling.

None of this—none of this makes any _sense_. It’s foreign territory and feels very dangerous. Keith might not _like_ how things normally go, but at least he knows how to deal with it. This is entirely new.

But new gave him Shiro, didn’t it?

Keith considers. The Allens seem like the type to keep to their rules—at least at first. That will give Keith enough time to get his bearings again and figure how to work with this. Maybe the new ways will be better, maybe not, but they can’t really be _worse_ can they?

And if Keith is honest… He doesn’t want to leave the Allens. School still sucks and the other kids are loud and chaotic, but there is an order to the way the Allens run their house that Keith has rarely experienced—that he _craves_. There’s a schedule he can follow, rules that stay the same, and Keith is generally allowed to do what he wants as long as it doesn’t make trouble with the other kids.

Maybe, somehow, he’s getting a second chance.

It will probably all crash around his ears later, but is it so bad to hold on to this just a little longer?

Keith breathes.

“Okay.”

A collective gust of relief whooshes around the room. Keith has no idea where it comes from, but he gets the vague impression he did something right. Which is…new.

“Well, I’ll be heading out then,” says the cop. Keith had honestly forgotten he was there. He’s smiling now. It looks weird. “I’m glad to see this all worked out. Stay sharp, Keith.”

Keith so shocked to be addressed directly, he jumps nearly a foot and gapes at the man’s back until he leaves the room.

“He’s certainly right. This has all worked out so much better than we expected.” Mrs. Keen is smiling, too. Seriously, what is up with the smiling? “I’ll just write up the relevant paper work. Shiro, would you mind talking with me for a minute?”

“Yeah. Sure,” says Shiro. But before he leaves, he squeezes Keith’s shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?”

Keith looks at Mr. and Mrs. Allen who are _also_ smiling at him and not even the fake kind either. He has no idea how he got here, but somehow…

“Yeah.”

He might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Keith. Someone save you from your pessimism.


	11. Chapter 11

In the past ten minutes, Keith’s life has gotten _weird._ First Shiro stood up for him in front of a room full of adults. Then the adults _listened_. And now Keith is sitting between his foster parents who are neither scolding him _or_ ignoring him _or_ being aggressively friendly. Part of Keith wonders if he passed out in the desert and this is all some sort of demented fever dream, but he doesn’t think he has this kind of imagination.

“You must be hungry,” says Mrs. Allen who has given him a very rapid yet very thorough physical examination, including shining a penlight his eye to check for a concussion. She digs through her purse. “When did you last eat? I have cheese sticks and applesauce. Which would you like?”

Somewhat bewildered, Keith chooses the applesauce.

Mr. Allen places his phone on the table. Keith doesn’t know whom he’s been texting, but he’s vaguely aware that one of the Allen’s would normally be taking the kids to school at this time.

“So, the Garrison?”

Keith flinches and frowns, which is his normal response when he doesn’t know what is going on.

“Shiro said you could do well there,” explains Mrs. Allen. “Do you want to apply?”

Keith is so surprised he squeezes the applesauce too hard—it’s the pouch kind that doesn’t need a spoon—and promptly chokes on the overabundance of mushed apple.

Mrs. Allen pats him gently on the back. “There, there. Nice and easy, sweetie.”

“The Garrison is a difficult school to get into,” says Mr. Allen.

Keith finds his voice. “Shiro thinks I can.”

Mr. Allen throws back his head, shoulders shaking. “Well, if _Shiro_ thinks so…”

Keith doesn’t get what is so funny.

“It may take some hard work, but I’m sure you can do it,” says Mrs. Allen. “We can help you out if you want.”

And that’s that. Like Keith said, _weird._

Mr. Allen stands up with a groan. He spends a good minute cracking his back while his wife wrinkles her nose (“That’s _gross_ , Henry”), and then he dusts his hands off on his trousers. “Well, Keith. Are you ready to go home?”

Keith figures there’s not much else to do, so he sips the last of his applesauce and gets to his feet. He heads for the main door of the building, but Mrs. Allen catches his shoulder.

“Wait, honey. Don’t you want to say goodbye to Shiro?”

Keith isn’t sure what his face does, but both Mr. and Mrs. Allen exchanged stifled laughs with knowing smiles and seriously, this understanding thing is getting annoying. Just because they had one talk doesn’t mean they _know_ him. He’s going to have to make that clear.

Except, he really wants to see Shiro first.

Wait, no! He doesn’t want to see Shiro! What is Shiro doesn’t want to see _him_? What if it’s all ruined or Shiro was just being nice or—

But he doesn’t get a chance to protest before he’s in Ms. Keen’s office and they’re alone and he’s about two seconds away from a heart attack.

“Hey, Keith,” says Shiro. He’s smiling and relaxed again now, but in his well-starched uniform, he still looks just a little stiffer and less approachable than usual.

“Mrs. Allen says she’ll wash the clothes,” Keith blurts out in a panic. “And return them to you. Unless you want them now? Then, uh…”

Shiro snorts. “Then what? You’re going to strip for me? Bet your social worker would love that if you ran out of here naked.”

The image he paints is funny (and mildly tempting) and breaks some of the tension. Keith allows himself a small grin. He plucks at the overlarge t-shirt on his chest.

“Um, but if you want—”

“I’ve only worn that shirt once, and it was under great duress,” says Shiro. “Stop worrying, Keith.”

Not likely, but he’ll drop the clothes thing. People seem to have that worked out, and Keith kind of likes the implied promise that he’ll see Shiro again.

Keith is working up the courage to say what he really needs to to Shiro, but before he can, Shiro breaks the silence.

“Have you heard of the Big Brothers program?”

Keith’s eyebrows pop up. He has. He was part of it once and hated it. He eyes Shiro suspiciously.

Shiro leans back on Ms. Keen’s overflowing desk, bracing his hands on either side of his hips.

“How would you like me to be your Big Brother?”

That’s—

“What _!?_ ”

Shiro smiles. “Me. Your Big Brother.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Well, mostly because it would make some things go smoother. If I’m already in the system as your Big Brother, it’ll be easier for me to contact you and help you out. Especially in case you get moved from the Allens, I’ll still be able to stick around—”

“No, I mean. Why are you doing this? Any of this?”

Shiro shrugs like it’s obvious. “I like you. I want to help.”

That’s not an answer. At least, not enough. Keith frowns deeply, challenging Shiro to tell him the whole truth.

And Shiro to his credit seems to get that. He rolls back his shoulders, some of the shiny veneer falling off and leaving Shiro just a tad less steady and a little smaller than he normally seems.

“Well…” He seems to be picking his words carefully. “What I said is true. I do like you. And I do want to help.” It takes Shiro an unusually long time to find what he wants to say. “And I get it.” He shrugs and doesn’t look at Keith.

“I was a foster kid, too.”

Keith’s mouth drops open. “But you’re—!”

Important. Valuable. Worthwhile likeable good _wanted_. No way Shiro—brilliant, golden Shiro—would get passed around like a misshaped puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

But Shiro’s smile is broken. “Yeah, no.”

Keith is suddenly filled with a rush of _feeling_. He doesn’t know how to name it except that it’s strong. He wants to punch someone. Or hug Shiro. Or break something. He could take on the entire world right now. He wants to. He needs to do _something,_ but he doesn’t know what _._ His teeth vibrate.

All he knows is that he really, _really_ does not want Shiro to feel what Keith has felt. And if he has, that’s the worst unfairness the universe has to offer.

“I’m sorry,” Keith splutters. It’s a stupid thing to say. He hates when people patronize him with _I’m sorry_ , but he doesn’t know what else to do. If there’s anything Keith could have done or could do to make sure Shiro never had to feel that, he’d have done it. Anything.

“It’s okay,” soothes Shiro with a small smile that Keith knows too well because Keith doesn’t smile but he knows all about having to pretend you’re all right when you’re really not. “My mom got me back a while ago,” explains Shiro. “We’re okay now.”

Keith doesn’t know what do to about the sad glint in Shiro’s eyes, so he just kind of hovers. Really closely.

Shiro notices. He scoots over on the desk and pats the space next to him. Keith, watching carefully to see if he’s reading this right, sits beside him. They’re close together and Shiro has covered his face with one hand and Keith wonders, with a kind of jittery energy, if he has the courage to comfort him.

Very carefully and halfway astonished at his own daring, Keith places his hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro whips around to look at him and Keith is ready to flinch back and apologize, but Shiro’s face just _softens._ Keith couldn’t tell you what Shiro’s expression says or what it means, but somehow…Keith thinks it’s a good thing?

Shiro takes a shaky breath (and Keith can _feel_ that) and drags his hand over his face. “I don’t normally tell people this,” he confesses. “My mom, she’s a good person. She’s done a lot for me.” There’s almost a pleading in his voice under the determination. “She _has_. I don’t like to bring up the one time she failed.”

Keith thinks he gets it. He doesn’t know much about mothers and even less about them coming back, but if Keith could get his dad back… He gets it. He does.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say that, though. This is Shiro sharing, and Keith will take that and protect it like a priceless treasure. He doesn’t want to intrude.

Shiro sits up a little straighter, and Keith’s hand slips off his shoulder.

“So I don’t know your story,” says Shiro. “It could be like mine. It could be completely different.” He looks at Keith. “But I get it. Some of it at least. So I want to be there for you.”

After a long moment, Keith whispers, “Me too.” It feels like a very brave, very dangerous thing to say. Shiro’s response is to grab him in a loose headlock and pull him close to his chest. Keith leans in, hoping this means he did something right.

“So what do you say?” says Shiro. “Can I be your Big Brother?”

Keith wants to respond, but worry bites like carbonation in his chest.

“What if I screw up?”

“That’s kind of what I’m here for,” says Shiro.

“But I screw up a lot.”

“Then I’ll help you out a lot.”

“How many _times_?” demands Keith.

Shiro laughs. “As many times as it takes.”

Keith can feel his jaw tightening, chin jutting out mulishly, but Shiro places his broad hand between his shoulder blades and it acts like a reset, canceling out the jitters.

“Keith, I get that you don’t trust this. That’s okay. You don’t have to trust me yet. I just need you to believe me enough to give me a chance, okay? And I’ll prove it you.”

Keith wants to believe, really he does, but this isn’t the kind of thing that comes easily. “I’m really good at getting rid of people,” he warns.

“Well, I’m really good at not getting rid of, so we match.” Shiro grins. “We’ll make it like a bet. You do everything you can to get rid of me, and I’ll prove to you you can’t.”

It sounds like a dumb idea. No, it _is_ a dumb idea because the one thing Keith is good at is driving people away and he hasn’t backed down from a challenge yet.

But Shiro has this glint in his eye. It’s the same one that comes when punks at the tracks tell him he can’t do something because he’s a fresh-faced, goody-two-shoes Garrison brat. And he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t get angry or brag or do any of that ridiculous posturing. He just sets his jaw and gets on the hover.

And then absolutely crushes what everyone else says is impossible.

“You’re going to lose,” says Keith.

Shiro good naturedly knocks Keith upside the head. “Nope. I don’t think so.”

And that’s the thing about Shiro. It’s not just that he’s nice ( _too_ nice) and brilliant and actually listens. He is also—definitely, absolutely, beyond any doubt— _the_ most stubborn person Keith knows.

And Keith knows _Keith_.

“So…” prompts Shiro.

Keith shrugs with as much nonchalancehe can muster. “You can _try_.”

Shiro beams, bright and shark-toothed, like he already won.

And Keith?

A tiny part of him even believes Shiro can win this too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to wrap things up with Shiro, and then...that's it! Thank you to everyone who has read and supported this in any way. Your responses mean the world to me! <3


	12. Chapter 12

It takes an age for Shiro to get back to the Garrison. After seeing Keith safely off with the Allens (It’s kind of hilarious, actually: Keith tries to _so hard_ to play it cool and completely fails), Shiro has another meeting with Keith’s social worker. Apparently the cost of working everything out for Keith before is an inordinate amount of retroactive paperwork _now_. Which is just…the worst. Paper work is the worst. And after _that,_ Shiro meets up with Mr. Allen because 1) Shiro’s pretty sure he can fix the hover Keith “borrowed” given the right tools and 2) Shiro is the only person who knows where the darn thing is. Mr. Allen says if they can get the hover back in one piece, he’s almost certain he can talk his neighbors out of pressing charges.

(And if he can’t, Shiro is more than willing to share a few words of his own, mostly along the lines of what are you _thinking?!_ The kid is _twelve!_ )

The way there is filled with questions about Shiro’s program, his goals and specialties, the kind of small talk Shiro has perfected schmoozing the donors who fund the Garrison’s scholarship program. But on the way back, the subject changes. Shiro learns that the Allens have three kids of their own, one just starting college, and two other foster kids. Keith came to them a month ago when Ms. Keen called them, begging for a safe place for a very hurt child. They had in no way been planning on another kid, but they’ve taken Keith in anyway and made room for him as best they could. Mr. Allen continues to talk about the challenges of fostering and parenting and it’s all a side of the foster care system that Shiro’s never really been privy to before. He finds it a bit disconcerting.

No time to worry about that, though, because as soon as he’s back at the Garrison, Iverson treats him to a full hour-long lecture on responsibilities and proper channels and _you don’t have to do everything by your damn self, Shirogane_. Shiro’s pretty sure Iverson isn’t actually mad, though, because otherwise he’d also be getting the works about not breaking curfew or sneaking off Garrison property. The lecture is still plenty harrowing, and by the time Iverson is finished, Shiro is only able to make to the last half hour of his last class. As promised, there’s no comment on Shiro’s tardiness, but Instructor Halbert makes up for it by directing every mastery question at him and it’s only thanks to Shiro’s coms officer texting him her notes with highlighted answers that Shiro is able to survive at all.

At dinner, he’s met by Ana, their engineer, and seriously _bless_ his flight team because they know him well enough to know he isn’t nearly the Golden Boy most the Garrison thinks he is and still collected all the notes and assignments he missed today. On the other hand, they _also_ have been quite happy to share the story of Shiro’s “plight with his feral desert child” to anyone who wants to hear which means that Shiro is subjected to Matt joking about Shiro being a father at nineteen and calling him “Dad” all through dinner until Shiro threatens to throw him down on the matts tomorrow (“That’s child abuse, Dad!” “Only because you are a _child_.”)

And then there’s homework and all the material he missed and it’s late in the evening before Shiro finds even a moment to be alone. The last smoky-red rays of the sun are leaching away from the desert as Shiro sits on the roof, flipping his phone in his hand. It’s out of bounds, he has a butt-load of work to do, and all he really wants is to collapse and sleep for a solid twelve hours, but there’s been something niggling at him, gnawing at the back of his head all day until he can’t ignore it anymore.

Shiro finally holds his phone steady and presses call.

“ _Takashi!_ How _are_ you? _”_

“ _Hi, Mom._ ” Shiro’s Japanese is still rusty, but it’s getting better since he finally admitted to his mother how much he missed it.

“It’s so good to hear from you! You never call.”

That’s…true. It’s not that Shiro doesn’t want to talk to his mom, but he doesn’t know what to say. The Garrison is a tough program. If he talks to her too much, she’ll pick up on how stressed out he is or how little sleep he gets and then she’ll worry. That’s not her job. Shiro can take care of himself now; she doesn’t need to keep sacrificing for him. So Shiro only calls when he has his life together enough that he can tell her everything’s good, and she’ll believe him. That just…doesn’t happen very often.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I’m fine.” A thought hits Shiro. “Wait, did Iverson call you?”

“No,” says Akiko, suspicion growing in her voice. “Should I be expecting him to?”

“No! Nononono! Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.” Damnit. Shiro can keep a straight face under the worst of the Garrison instructors, but he completely falls apart when faced with his mother. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine, Takashi.”

Shiro sighs, curling over his knees. This is why he doesn’t often call her. She seems to be able to punch through the façade he shows to everyone else and know exactly how he’s actually feeling.

“Really, it’s fine. Just something dumb, don’t worry about it. Iverson’s only making me run for a week, so it’s really nothing.”

“Oh, _Takashi_.”

The sigh in her voice launches Shiro into a subject change perhaps more quickly than he would have normally. “Anyway, that’s not why I called.”

“Oh? Are you asking for money then?”

It’s a joke, but Shiro has to strangle a vicious **_No!_** His scholarship includes room and board, and his work as a TA covers everything else if he’s careful. In two years, he’ll graduate and be officer and can finally give back. He doesn’t need to take from her.

But she’d be offended if he actually said that.

“No. I-I have a question.”

Shiro’s stomach squirms like it’s been replaced by a very unhappy invertebrate. He would never have dared asked this except he keeps thinking about Keith and today and how it completely undermined his understanding of the foster care system.

Shiro closes his eyes, grounds himself, and takes the plunge.

“Did you actually want me back?”

“Takashi, what are you talking about?”

“Did you actually want me back? When…” Shiro tries to be direct and fails. “When I was gone.”

Akiko’s voice comes across as a growl. “How can you even ask that!”

Shiro throws a hand in the air. “Because it doesn’t make sense! We’d just moved and Dad died and you had your own…everything and—” Shiro’s voice drops, defeated. “And I know I wasn’t an easy kid.”

“You were a hurting kid,” corrects Akiko. “A lot of things changed on you without you having time to process it. You needed space to heal.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have had to deal with my crap.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” growls Akiko.

“You know what it means,” Shiro growls back. “I know you have bipolar disorder.”

Because Shiro has words for it now. It used to be pills in the bathroom cabinet and “Mom needs to visit her doctor today.” And before it all, when Shiro’s young life was just beginning to fall apart:  _Mom hasn’t gotten out of bed yet_ and _Mom’s really angry_ and  _Mom forgot to buy groceries again_ —

“ _Your mother can’t take care of you anymore.”_

“And you were stuck here in the wrong country with nothing,” continues Shiro angrily. “You didn’t need some messed up kid who just wanted to break everything.”

Silence on the other side of the line. And then Akiko’s voice, kind—but hard.

“For such a bright boy, you are remarkably stupid,” she says bluntly.

“Mom—”

“Be silent. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Takashi.”

Shiro curls over, fingers cramping around his phone and heart pounding in his throat.

“Is recovery hard? Yes. You have no idea. But do you know what I thought every time I was ready to give up? When it felt too difficult, too impossible, and not worth it? When I was ready to give in, I would stop and remember I couldn’t. There was a little boy out there who needed me. And that gave me the strength to keep trying.

“So you are wrong, Takashi. I couldn’t have made it without you. I needed you very, very badly.”

Shiro presses his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle any sound. His eyes burn.

Akiko’s voice softens. “And even if I did not, it all still would have been worth it. Being your mother has been the greatest gift of my life.”

She doesn’t say anything after that, just waits until Shiro can get his breathing under control. He squints into the last glowing embers of the dying sun, pretending that’s the reason for the water collected around his eyes.

“So,” says Akiko. Her voice is gentle and mild. “What brought this up?”

For some reason, Shiro finds this funny even though it’s really not. His wet laugh turns into a cough that he quickly stifles.

“I met this kid.” Keith’s face, stubborn, scared, and everything in between flashes through his mind. “He’s in foster care. And he basically believes that he’s all alone in the world and no one will be there for him.”

“Ah,” says Akiko, knowing and certain as only the woman who raised Takashi Shirogane can be. “Well, he’s certainly wrong about that.”

Shiro considers asking her if she thinks this is a bad idea. If he’s too young or dumb or incapable of making this work. But then he remembers that Akiko Shirogane has never, _ever_ let him give up on anything. Least of all himself.

He grins. “Yeah, Mom.

“He  _really_ is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks! I hope you enjoyed :D
> 
> A quick note about mental illness: Because recovery especially is a touchy concept, I want to make clear that bipolar disorder isn't something you just get over and Cool, it's gone, don't have to deal with it any more, I can just go back to normal now. In that sense, recovery isn't the appropriate word to use at all. But that isn't what Akiko is talking about here.
> 
> Basically, after Shiro's dad died, the grief combined with isolation and stress and then losing Shiro too trigged a really awful episode of a pre-existing (but undiagnosed) condition, and she was in a really bad place. For Akiko, recovery doesn't mean "curing" her mental illness but figuring out what she needed (e.g. medication/therapy/support systems/etc) to get functional again. But it was such a deep, dark place she was in that Akiko feels getting from there to where she was stable enough to raise a child was a significant enough change to call recovery. Akiko still has - and struggles with - bipolar disorder, but she had the tools now so that it no longer controls her life. 
> 
> TL;DR Many (most) mental illnesses don't just go away. But you can live a life that is defined by far more than just that.
> 
> As for why I gave this backstory to Shiro.... Short answer: I needed a background that explained both Shiro's resilience and dogged independence as well his highly developed nurturing abilities, but this author's note is already too long as is. Ask me in the comments if you want to hear more ;) Thank you to everyone who has read and liked this story! I love you all!!


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